


The Fox Between Worlds

by AvelHart



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Emotional Manipulation, Friendship, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 144,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26923423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvelHart/pseuds/AvelHart
Summary: Akira Kurusu is an average student whose life changes the night he injures a young man named Yusuke. But shortly after, strange occurrences befall Shujin Academy. Akira didn't sign up for being dragged into any of it, and he realizes there may be more to the world than meets the eye.
Relationships: Kitagawa Yusuke/Kurusu Akira
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was initially removed from Ao3 due to some non-fanfic related issues. The last four chapters may seem rushed, and that's because they were in order to make the deadline for the event this was originally written for. It should not have been created for an event, and I do not have any intentions of editing or revising this piece. What you see is the first and final draft of this fanfic.
> 
> The remaining chapters will be updated in bulk eventually. Mind the tags on these because unlike the first version of this, I will not be listing each and every potential trigger that pops up in the chapter.

He’s late again.

It shouldn’t be _too_ much of a surprise considering the recent delays in their walk-homes from school together. But Sakamoto Ryuji was not someone who kept people waiting. Maybe he was off by about five, six minutes max.

Ten was pushing the limit. Ten screamed intense track practice. Ten screamed something was Not Normal.

Summer heat in Tokyo was nothing compared to the intensity of the rays back home. He can feel the perspiration slipping down the back of his neck, blossoming on hopefully not too noticeable spots on his school shirt. The sun beginning its slow descent upon the horizon is a timer, telling him that he needed to be at the café before evening struck. And with the minutes ticking by, he may very well end up breaking that curfew for the first time since he’s arrived.

“Yo, Akira.”

He catches Ryuji out of the corner of his eye, raising a hand in a half-hearted wave. The energy that always permeated his voice was absent.

Very concerning.

“Hey,” Akira returns. There’s a breath of silence as Ryuji exhales heavily. “Long day?”

He scoffs, “Yeah. Kamoshida’s decided to up the anty on our exercises. He doesn’t even give a shit. He says it’s for pushing us to the max, increasing our stamina – he’s full of it.” A pause, voice lowering to a near-whisper, or rather as close to a whisper one could get with Ryuji. “I’m not in a rush for anything, so I’ll tag along. There’s something I want to talk about too.”

“Sounds suspicious,” he means it, but the words carry a teasing lilt to them.

“Dude, no,” Ryuji begins a slow walk in the direction of the station. “Let’s get going. I don’t know who’s listenin’.”

Their walk away from the school grounds is quiet. Worry prickles at him, for Ryuji. His posture is stiff, face creased in a frown that straddles the line of concentration and frustration. Akira knows better than to prod when he’s like this – Ryuji ended up spilling the beans half the time anyway. He was in no ways stupid, but when Ryuji was tangled _this deep_ in thoughts, it was never for a good thing. Opportunities that benefited him or his friends were met with open arms, enthusiasm hanging on the edges of his voice. When he stalked off in silence... well...

It’s not uncommon for the seats to be filled on the trains. They’re packed into the corner, and Akira holds his bag closer to give Ryuji a breadth more of space. It’s not much, but it’s something.

He watches as Ryuji’s head whips to the left, right, then back again in a quick survey of the area. “See anyone from Shujin?”

The surrounding passengers are clad in business attires, dark suits that are too hot for the summer heat. He recognizes the colors of a uniform from a neighboring college, but the plaid pants and skirts associated with his high school are nowhere to be found. At least not on their end of the cart.

“No.”

A sigh. He’s been doing that a lot this afternoon... “You’ve probably heard of them too, yeah? The rumors about Kamoshida?”

Akira’s mind traces back weeks, months, and a bitter taste settles in his mouth as he recalls the physical education courses. There was a level of hierarchy whenever Kamoshida commanded a class, a given considering his status as an ex-Olympic athlete. To him, it was a title worth as much gold as the medals lining the display case in his house, no doubt. He had never failed to make a reference to his ‘heroics’ in sports. It was annoying, it was arrogant – unbefitting of a teacher, in his opinion.

He must’ve nodded at some point because Ryuji’s carrying on without a second thought. “I don’t have any evidence or anything, but there are a lot of people coming back from volleyball practice with more bruises. I know that spikes and dives can hurt and all, but ain’t it a _little_ suspicious? If it weren’t for that bastard’s teaching, it’d mean nothing. But he’s an asshole, forcing students to keep going ‘till they’re ready to throw up.”

“You may be on to something...” Akira offers lamely. He feels another set of eyes boring into his side. A disapproving look creases a woman probably twice his age before she averts her eyes. Too much attention from adults was never a good thing either.

Ryuji’s voice breaks an octave higher. “Right?”

“Quiet down.”

“Oh- sorry,” he doesn’t seem to notice how they’ve accumulated an audience of three people who regard them with the same disdain as the woman. “But what do you think? Am I overreacting, or do you get it?”

Akira waits for them to look away before he levels Ryuji’s gaze. “I noticed you’re coming back later too.”

“Yeah,” he slams his eyes to the floor. “That’s also his fault. Don’t think he’s crazy about me being one of the track team’s fastest runners or something, so he has me fill in an extra lap or two. Not that I’m gonna let some asshole like him stop me.”

His shoulders lift in a shrug before offering, “Probably jealous. The most I’ve seen Kamoshida do is praise himself after he’s hit a ball over the net.”

 _That_ manages to tug a smirk from Ryuji. It’s small, but it reminds him of when things were less serious, more lighthearted – when they could talk about this and that without worrying about Kamoshida breaching the subjects.

“ _The doors to your left will be open. Please be careful when leaving the train._ ”

Ryuji stretches when they’ve broken away from the swarm of people. The platform is less crowded than Shibuya’s, but it’s still difficult to hear him over the noise as they hurry down the hallways. “Oh yeah, you work at a café too. Got any sports drinks there or something?”

“I don’t think that’s one of his specialties. There’s coffee,” he fishes in his pocket to check for change. His fingers brush the edges of a few 100-yen coins. If memory serves correct, it would be enough for one small beverage. It was the least he could do for Ryuji. “You didn’t grab anything from the vending machines?”

“Nah, I...” The hesitance alone is enough to draw them to a halt. “...guess I forgot. I keep meanin’ to bring water with me to practice. And soda’s nice and all, but you gotta be careful which ones you drink after moving around a lot.”

The streets of Yongen-Jaya are tight. He’s come to recognize some of the people – the mother and her son with their dog, the cop that hung out by the street lamp, the person buried in his phone at the intersection that led to the clinic. He realizes that he can’t put a name to them

( _and he probably never_ will _)_

but that’s okay; he doesn’t have time making acquaintances outside of his school or the café.

The ringing of the bell above the door is both familiar and a reminder. This wasn’t a permanent residence, but he’s been here long enough to associate some form of comfort with it. Now if only Sakura Sojiro’s smile was a _little_ more welcoming. Was it any wonder they had little customers?

Leblanc was, quite literally, that café down the corner commonly raided by older people. Akira had yet to see customers his age gathering here as a hangout spot. He’s not sure why the name ‘Leblanc’ had been chosen, unless Sojiro felt it having a French title would add to some fabled allure. And not that he cared or anything, but ‘Leblanc’ should have been written as two words, not one—

“Welcome,” Sakura Sojiro says, already narrowing in on them with a perplexed look. “A friend of yours?”

He feels his head dip in a nod, but it is Ryuji who answers with mouth folded in a lop-sided grin. “Hey there,” Akira holds his tongue; Sojiro did not take very well to informal speech. “I’m Sakamoto Ryuji. Not too crazy ‘bout coffee, but you got a nice setup here, gramps.”

Oh boy.

“Uh-huh...” he says slowly, but at least he’s not frowning anymore. “Well, I appreciate the sentiment; I’m Sakura Sojiro. Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll fix you something?”

He grins. “Sounds like a deal!”

“Akira,” with a jerk of his thumb towards the stairs, Sojiro says, “Lend me a hand, will you? Also, did you remember to feed your pet? He’s been meowing nonstop since you left.”

Animals were not normally allowed at Leblanc – it was a rule in some invisible guidebook only accessible by Sojiro himself. Morgana was his cat, but the word ‘pet’ did not do him justice. He seemed to come and go as he pleased, disappearing at the crack of dawn while being home in time for bed, yowling if was a mere three minutes past midnight. Morgana, Akira muses, has shown more shades of personality than the dog he used to have as a child.

Ryuji takes a seat at the bar, dropping his bag at the foot of the stool while Akira hurries up the stairs. The attic of Leblanc is half the size of the downstairs room. In the corner of the rooms were a bed and a work desk with hanging tools that he had no reason to touch. He’s not even sure if they belonged to Sojiro or if he just shoved them in storage for the hell of it. As far as he knew, Leblanc had no need for wrenches or hammers.

Adjacent to the desk is a ragged recliner couch and a wide table. Tucked under the table are bowls from the Leblanc cupboards stuffed with untouched food pellets and half-empty, distilled water. And curled up on the cushions Akira makes out a small, black body. Morgana raises his head and his jaws stretch in a yawn.

“You didn’t eat again?” he says, tossing his bag on the empty space by Morgana.

“ _Mrow_!”

Akira kneels, digging a finger into Morgana’s supper... lunch and breakfast too, probably. Some spills over the sides, clattering against the floor like soft raindrops on a wooden roof. “I told you already: I don’t have any canned tuna.”

His ears twitch at the words cautiously.

“I _don’t_ have any,” Akira annunciates, giving him a look. “Your fine palate isn’t exactly cheap, you know. Now eat up.”

He turns his head.

“ _Morgana.”_

Silence.

A heavy sigh edges out of him as he pushes himself to his feet. “Starve then,” Akira mutters, fiddling with the buttons of his school uniform. He has half a mind not to tell Morgana to stop staring while he’s getting changed. Granted he was a cat, so seeing a human’s nakedness probably meant nothing to him. But Morgana observed him like a hawk, as if he had the conscious of an indecisive human.

Shujin’s school uniform policy allowed customization; not every student wore the shirt and pants alone. Akira had been relocated to Leblanc as a transfer student a few weeks back. Tokyo was home to the _only_ school that offered specific programs his parents demanded he take. Unfortunately, that meant leaving behind most of his belongings. His mother had spared no mercy in lecturing him to wear his uniform properly.

“ _You want to dress professionally. They won’t take you seriously if you can’t even_ look _the part._ ”

And her words had rung true.

The teachers had shown an obvious bias to those who let their suspenders hang at their hips to those who wore them under their jacket. It was silly, he thought, to judge someone simply by how they looked. He thinks to Ryuji who walks around without a care in the world if his shirt is creased with wrinkles, or if he wears one of the brand-ones instead of the required white.

If nobody was going to pull him over, he had no reason to care.

As he walks downstairs, tying the strings of an apron stained with coffee spills, he can’t help the prickle of envy. Being careless – _carefree_ , he corrects himself – had never been much of an option for him.

“Oh, is that your cat?” Ryuji’s voice breaks through the numbness of his mind.

Morgana is right at his heels, springing up on one of the seats and watching with careful eyes. Akira nods, reaching for the yen he’s transferred from his uniform pants. “Something like that,” he turns to Sojiro – “Here, it’s for his drink.” – who raises an eyebrow in response.

“Keep it. I’m not charging the kid or anything,” he says gruffly. “Consider it a thank you for helping out.”

Huh. “So, I do my chores and my friends get free food and drink?” A pause. “That’s a unique trade-off.”

Ryuji barks out a one note laugh. Morgana cringes with an offended look. “I ain’t complainin’!”

“I’m sure,” He takes the prepared cup from Sojiro, sliding it next to Ryuji’s glass of water. “Bottoms up. You shouldn’t waste what’s free.”

 _That_ swipes the shit-eating grin from Ryuji’s lips. His fingers close around the ceramic surface, recoiling from the heat’s touch, pulls it towards his mouth with less confidence—

“ _Pah_!!” he sputters, a _clang_ singing along with Morgana’s yowl against the once-tranquil atmosphere as Ryuji drops his cup on the platter. Akira reaches for one of the rags by the cash register to mop up the coffee that sloshes over the lip. “Hot, hot—! Ugh, man, this is _really_ bitter too!”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Sojiro says, amusement spilling into his words. “You okay? Didn’t burn yourself, did you?”

Ryuji takes a hasty swig of water. “Nah, I’m good. It’s different, but it ain’t bad or anything.”

Akira swipes the cup off the counter, taking it to the sink below the TV hanging from the wall. There is a stack of plates streaked with curry swimming in a concoction of coffee and water. He can make out the red and yellow set of that famous talk show that came on every Mondays. The hosts have yet to introduce their guest of the day, opening to the audience with recited lines and plastic smiles.

“Hm?” Akira turns in time to see Sojiro click a button on his phone. “I need to take this.”

...Maybe he should do the dishes later.

Morgana’s ears are pressed to his skull, and Ryuji must have noticed because he turns to Akira with a genuinely confused look. “Is your cat okay? He looks upset.”

Leblanc has been Morgana’s ‘home’ for well over a week and a half now. Akira has grown to recognize Morgana’s body language, and he knows when he’s about to swipe at his unsuspecting victim.

“Did you try to pick him up?”

“What? No, why?”

He leans forward, grabbing Morgana around the torso, unmindful of the protesting meow. “Don’t be mean,” Akira chides, lowering him to the floor. “Behave, and I’ll think about buying that fatty tuna.”

It was crazy, but sometimes he wondered if Morgana _really_ understood him. Certain key words had the ability to shut him up while others resulted in vocal arguments. Morgana seemed to have a decent memory too, remembering whenever Akira fell through on a promise. His methods of payback varied, but his favorite, Akira came to realize, was stealing his pillow in his sleep. Not that it _mattered_ – it was only a pillow – but it wasn’t fun to wake up with the occasional cramped neck.

Morgana gazes at him before rounding the corner, lancing up the stairs with boisterous footfalls.

“Akira,” Sojiro’s already put away his phone. “I got something for you to do.”

He blinks. “What is it?”

There’s a pause there, a moment that oozes with something akin to _embarrassment_. “Would you go out to Akihabara? I ordered something from their game shop and it’s come in, but I can’t exactly leave this place empty.”

“Akihabara?” Akira echoes. The question leaves his mouth before he can reel it back. “You’re investing in video games?”

Sojiro’s eyes narrow, “Don’t ask. Can you do it or not?”

“Yeah, sorry,” his fingers tug at the strings of the apron. He makes a mental note to put a sturdier leash on his curiosity next time. “I’ll be back—”

“Hold on! Geez,” Sojiro rubs the back of his neck, slapping a receipt and credit card down on the counter. “They’re not going to give it to you if you don’t have proof, and I’m asking you to go, but I’m not asking you to pay for it.”

Ryuji pushes back his seat. “Akihabara, huh? It’s been a while since I’ve gone there. Can I tag— huh?” his hand burrows into the front pouch of his bag. The zipper whistles loudly, and Ryuji pulls his phone free. There’s a pause. Ryuji’s posture slackens, and he sighs exasperatedly. “Uggh, great timing... I gotta run by the store before returning home. Guess I’ll have to go some other time then. Sorry, man.”

Akira only offers a nod and a smile as Ryuji sidles around him in the cramped space between the booth and chairs.

“See ya tomorrow then,” he turns to Sojiro. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Sojiro smirks, “Any time. Come again – it’ll be on the house so long as this one does his chores.”

The bell sings for the second time that evening as Ryuji departs in a jog.

“As I was saying,” Sojiro sighs, and he slips something else to the pile. “I just need you to pick it up. You... said you had a license, right?”

Car keys, his mind tells him. Sojiro must be in a pretty good mood.

“I’m asking you to go right at rush hour. If you took the trains, you’d be back here by night. I don’t normally do this, but just be careful, alright?” A pause. “I don’t need you getting any dents in it.”

“Really?”

“If you don’t want to, you don’t have to take it. I’m only trying to make your errand shorter.”

Akira shakes his head, grabbing the items. “No- thank you. It’s been a while since I’ve driven someone else’s car.”

“You’re not exactly instilling confidence, kid.” Sojiro deadpans. “I hate to ask this of you, but I have something else to take care of.”

“I don’t mind.”

He can’t imagine Sojiro having other plans that extended beyond the café, but he also couldn’t see him buying a _video game_ , yet here they were. Platforms of light slant through the doorway as he steps into the ever-swelling heat.

Sojiro always parked the car out of Leblanc’s view, tucked into that cramped lot down the street. It’s not difficult to find the fading yellow hood, among plainer colors. The interior is neat and organized like the jars of coffee beans sitting on the shelves in Leblanc. He sits, the leather coughing a scent of caffeine and Akira wonders if _everything_ Sojiro owned traced back to coffee in some way.

The ignition hums to life, radio station mumbling a song against the speakers (What was her name again? Kujikawa Rise?). Sojiro never blasted music while driving. It had been something Akira found himself oddly grateful for, especially given the junk that news reporters spat, or whatever hit song of the week the public favored.

...Maybe he’s been hanging around Sojiro a little _too_ much.

(Not that he had much of a choice.)

Akihabara was at least half an hour away, skimming the outside perimeter of Shibuya and passing close to Kanda. Once Ryuji dragged him to Kanda when rumor about a girl their age went there to practice shogi. They ended up venturing as far as Akhibara thanks to Ryuji getting cold feet. Akira didn’t even know the name of this popular student. According to some of the students at Shujin (Ryuji included), she was cute, she liked shogi, and she didn’t go to their school.

He’s been packed in traffic for what feels like eons when he decides to scroll through the messages on his phone. The majority are from Ryuji, but there’s one sent by a classmate from a group project. Closer inspection reveals the Kamoshida Issue has slowly consumed the name of each new chat room. Akira selects one at random, scrolls to the top. It’s dated back to a week ago – the 25th of May – and Ryuji’s irritation slowly evolves with each descending text.

 **Ryuji:** Hey, can’t make it today.

 **Ryuji:** Kamoshida’s having the track team stay after.

 **Ryuji:** It’s total BS. Sometimes I wonder if he’s just _trying_ to piss us off.

 **Ryuji.** If he is, it’s working!

 **Akira.** That sucks.

 **Akira.** Have you brought this up to another teacher?

 **Akira.** load of good that’d do. they worship the damn guy. even senpai is brainwashed by

The phone stutters in his hand when the car behind him barks sharply, yelling about the red light turned green. He gives them a look (even if the driver can’t see him through Sojiro’s dim windows) before easing onto the gas pedal, rolling into the lull of traffic.

Here was the truth: He hadn’t been paying attention to who and who wasn’t enrolled in sports. There was one person on the volleyball team and he only knew this because they once wore their jersey instead of their uniform shirt. But now that Ryuji’s prodding him about Kamoshida, he feels a twinge of guilt for not making closer observations. That boy was quiet and timid, an easy target for the sharp-tongued and twisted students.

Shujin offered him what he needed

( _what his_ parents _needed_ )

but they had a zero-tolerance policy that undoubtedly functioned as a double-standard.

Ryuji, Kamoshida, sports, running, volleyball, (possible) abuse... They composed a poem that beat to the pulse of danger in each stanza, each syllable.

His own personal run-ins with Kamoshida had filled him with annoyance, but nothing like the blood-boiling rage Ryuji expressed. Would he feel angrier if he was on the track team? Volleyball? Or would he just roll over and do as told?

The answer was so simple:

No.

His anger was fueled by Ryuji’s. His distaste for Kamoshida was born from the protectiveness reserved for those he cared for. It was never about having Kamoshida as his physical education teacher.

As he pulls into the closest parking spot to Akihabara’s game store, he wonders if it’s even _worth_ talking to another teacher about the rumors. Try as he might, there was only so much one with little power could do in an environment that drank off hierarchy power.

It was unjust, unfair... It was aggravating... Standing up to Shujin would be no better than screaming into a void and expecting someone to shout back..

“Can I help you with something, sir?”

The voice breaches his thoughts, and suddenly the receipt and credit card feel like a stone in his pocket. The red-orange rays of the tired sunset the inside of the store ablaze. Akihabara’s game corner has narrow aisles, but their stock are jewels to any veteran gamer. Collectors probably put in _thousands_ of yen just to have each version of one game. Because apparently there _are_ differences between the green cartridge and its red counterpart. Who knew?

Akira had to admire their dedication even if his own wallet cringed from the sheer thought of putting in more than 10,000 yen on games.

He holds out the receipt, thumb tightened against the kanji of ‘Sakura Sojiro’. “I’m here to pick up something that was ordered online.”

The man raises an eyebrow. He holds it to the light, as if inspecting it for fraud. Which was kind of silly because it was just a _receipt_ , not a bill. “We don’t normally give out the product unless the person who ordered it picks it up themselves. But I know Sakura, and this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this.”

(Akira’s attention catches on his words.)

He shuffles through the drawers behind the counter. “You a relative of his or something?”

Akira blinks. “No, I’m—”

“Here you go,” the game is labeled for the computer. It’s some sort of fantasy game that Akira’s heard about but never touched. He vaguely remembers Ryuji mentioning the company that _made it_. “Sakura’s pretty damn lucky; this game flew off the shelves.”

“Yeah,” he nods, unsure if he’s successfully dodged the question. Not like he _had_ a decent answer. The idea of being related to Sojiro was just weird.

Sojiro’s card is swiped, and Akira bids farewell, suddenly _quite_ tired and sleep doesn’t sound that bad right now. But he doesn’t want to be subjected to any more questions while his brain sways in his head to its own tempo. And really, what did it matter if a stranger knew such knowledge? What would he do – type a comment in a livestream and collectively laugh with other streamers?

Things happened, and often there was nothing to do but endure, be the bigger person.

Sometimes, it was difficult.

For once, he allows himself to turn up the volume in the car. It’s a different song and it does little to quell the thoughts that refuse to be chased out of him. He finds himself reflecting on the Kamoshida incident for the third time. Waiting for Ryuji to fill him in on more suspicions would be the wisest decision... But Akira wasn’t known for his patience.

He’s passing on that road by Shibuya when the right headlight flickers out with a popping noise.

“...Oh,” he blinks once, twice.

Sojiro was not going to like this.

The logical side of his brain says it’s okay, that Sojiro would understand. Also, it’s his damn car, so he would have to get it fixed himself either way. The imaginative side creates wild scenarios, pressures Akira to weave this exaggerated tale to save any repercussions from a bulb’s well-timed blackout. _And talk about ungrateful, he lends you his car and you somehow manage to break the light?_

With limited lighting, he can barely make out one side of the road. The navigator guides him at max volume and he gives the dial a hard twist to the left, cutting off the chorus of whatever noise blasted from the speakers.

 _‘Well’_ , he thinks as he makes a left at the navigator’s command. ‘ _This sucks.’_

Apparently whatever God was upstairs was not finished giving him the middle finger. That very turn he made had been sharp, a jab at the gas pedal out of frustration—

—and something _screeches_ , tumbles over the hood of the car, and his foot slams against the brakes. The game in the passenger seat soars, ricocheting against the glove compartment with a smack that Akira practically feels. He shoves the stick into ‘park’, lunging out of the car ungracefully and hurrying to the other side.

‘ _It’s a deer. It’s some… wild animal, right?_ ’

...

“... **In .5 miles, turn left.** ”

“... **In .5 miles, turn left.** ”

The blood that pounds against his brain shouts in his ears, drowning out the sound of that damn navigator.

Sprawled on the pavement is neither a deer nor any other wild animal.

A groan rumbles from the boy’s lips, and Akira notices how his fingers twitch against the hard ground. His heart leaps in his throat. He kneels at his side, unmindful of the sting that stretches itself across his legs and palms.

“Oh God,” the words trip from his mouth, falling to the ground like bricks. “Are you alright? Don’t move, I-I’m gonna call an ambulance—”

His breath catches in his throat, his phone clatters to the ground, and it takes a while for his mind to catch up, but the boy’s holding his wrist. Tight. He lifts his head slowly, eyes straining against the pain that tugs at him. His hair reminds Akira of the doctor from that clinic down the street – dark, navy blue vaguely illuminated by the last headlight. But his eyes...

...they’re fierce.

A deep blue that matches the hair, a warning deep in his very iris.

“Don’t,” his voice is deep, tinged with strain. “Do _not_ call anyone.”

And his grip does the exact opposite of what he’s expecting. The boy’s fingers curl harder, biting into the skin. Akira’s head lurches back in confusion. “You’re kidding. You got hit by a freaking _car_ , and you’re—”

“I said _no_!” his face creases in anger, a sneer ghosting his lips. He releases his wrist, rolling onto his side and planting his hands against the ground. “I’m fine... Leave me be.”

Akira catches him when he begins to sink towards the ground. His teeth dig into his lower lip. “Are you always this stubborn when someone tries to help?”

...

Silence?

He shifts as the boy’s dead weight nearly pulls them to the ground. Hastily, he brings his fingers to his pulse.

One... Two...

It’s there.

And that’s all he needs to know to pop open the passenger door and lay him on the seat. For a while, he stands there, observing the unconscious body.

( _This probably looks_ really _fishy... I should get in the car soon._ )

Akira’s gaze drifts to his phone. It’s opened to the keypad, the first digit displayed on the dial screen.

Seconds drip by. The night wind sings ( _look what you did, look what you did_ ), nips at his arms, the boy’s breathing is steady, but he shows no signs of regaining consciousness anytime soon.

...

Akira curses.

His phone screen blinks shut.

* * *

“What in the hell...?” Sojiro turns on him. “What the hell did you _do_?”

Akira closes his eyes, tightly. It’s hopeless to wish, but he hopes that he’s just snared in some twisted nightmare. His anger towards Kamoshida (to _anybody_ ) tangled him in a nightmare in which he hit someone with Sojiro’s car. Knocked him out, to be precise. “I... Your headlight went out, I turned, and I hit him.”

Sojiro pinches the space between his eyebrows, sighing heavily. “God... Dammit, what’ve you gotten me into?” he turns to the boy still asleep. “Why’re you bringing him to me? Didn’t you call an ambulance?”

“He wouldn’t let me,” the words pinch his tongue. _Weak_ , they say. He swallows. “Before he fainted, he made it very clear he didn’t want anyone involved.”

“Good God...” Sojiro reaches for the boy’s shoulders and legs, pulling him out of the car in a fluid motion. Akira hadn’t noticed, but this boy is _quite_ tall. Had it been any other situation, he probably would’ve chuckled at seeing Sojiro carry someone almost _taller_ than him. “Let’s get him inside. There’s a first aid kit and we can check for any injuries. Though if there is the possibility of something we can’t fix, I’m calling the doctor – whether he likes it or not.”

Akira’s head dips in a slow nod. “Okay. I’m sorry...”

The lines that crease around Sojiro’s eyes straighten, expression softening. “I don’t think I’m the one you’re going to be apologizing to.”

 _Yeah_...

They relocate to the attic. Morgana instantly perks up at their arrival. Seeing Akira was one thing and seeing Sojiro was another. But a stranger? He leaps down from the desk, bounding over to them as they lay the boy on Akira’s bed.

“Not now, Morgana,” Akira mumbles, shooing the cat away when he perches on the edge of the mattress.

“Get me a light,” Sojiro commands. “There should be one in that desk.”

The entire time spent over him is in silence. Akira can only watch as Sojiro tends to him with limited medical knowledge. There is a lack of severe injuries, a few scrapes here and there, and it leaves Akira amazed. This was someone he hit with a freaking _vehicle_ , and there wasn’t a broken bone in him.

Would it be too soon to chalk it up as a miracle?

He must have begun to doze off because Sojiro’s gently shaking him by the shoulder. It seems the adrenaline was beginning its retreat from his veins.

“You should get some sleep,” he says, shoving the first aid kit onto one of the shelves. “He doesn’t have a concussion, so I won’t call anybody. I’d take him back to my house, but...” he swipes a hand down his face. “Anyway, he’s going to have to stay here tonight. Are you okay with that?”

“Of course,” Morgana leaps up next to him, and Akira scratches behind his ears to distract himself. “It’s the least I can do.”

Sojiro nods. “I’ll open up later for tomorrow. That should give us enough time to check on him and see how he’s doing.”

“Yeah... Thanks for all your help.”

“Well, this isn’t something I can walk away from. You bringing him to Leblanc didn’t help,” he says, making way towards the stairs. “I’ll leave my number by the payphone downstairs. I don’t like giving it out to anyone, but I can make an exception for something like this. Give me a call if something comes up.”

Morgana yawns before curling up on the couch, eyes glued on the boy.

“It was an accident,” Akira mutters, the guilt clawing at his throat. This person had to be no older than he was – a student. The lack of injuries didn’t excuse the carelessness of his actions.

There’s something else that muddles his thoughts, refreshes his worry.

And as he lays on the couch, nudging Morgana with his feet, a thought flits through his head as sleep catches up to him.

‘ _Would he sue?_ ’

He’s not sure what wakes him first:

Morgana’s loud meow, or the loud crash as the boy knocks against the shelf in a post-sleep daze.

Akira springs to his feet, ignoring the wave of dizziness that crashes into him. His voice is heavy with sleep, hands held out as if to catch him if he fell again. “Hey, easy there, easy...”

The boy looks at him sharply, eyes guarded.

“...You okay?”

“Where am I?”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You’re in Leblanc. It’s a café down the street from where...” the word leans away from him.

“...Where you ran me over?” he deadpans.

Akira feels his face heat up for whatever reason. “I’m sorry. I don’t have an excuse; I should’ve been more careful, but— where are you going?” He slides in front of him, halting his half limp, half stumble towards the stairs.

He frowns. “Does it matter?”

“It does,” Akira quips. “You can’t even walk straight. If you’re worried about your family, I have a phone that you can borrow. But I don’t have the car, and the train stations close after midnight.”

“So?”

Unbelievable. “You’re going to walk?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Akira’s not entirely sure what that means, nor does he care. He grabs his wrist, guiding him towards the bed with firm steps. “I’m not letting you leave when you’re like this. Just rest up and you can leave after Sojiro checks on you.”

He wrenches his hand free, eyebrows knitting together as offense crosses his face. “Don’t you dare lay a hand on me.”

“What is... I get your upset with me, and if there’s some way I can repay you for the damage, I will. But _please_ ,” he gestures to the bed with an aggressive jerk of his thumb. “Go back to bed. If I have to stay up just to make sure you won’t leave, I will.”

An amused smirk curls the boy’s lips. It’s crude, taunting. “You honestly believe you can stop me from leaving? How amusing.” Akira feels annoyance churn in his stomach, and he has to clench the fabric of his pants to stop himself from wiping the arrogant sneer off his face...

...Not that he _would_ hit him. He kinda already did that...

“Fine,” he relents as he lays on the bed, back turned. “I’ll humor you. Good night then.”

He rolls his eyes, retreating to the couch. “Would you at least tell me your name? It’ll make things easier for Sojiro tomorrow.” _Especially if you greet him with that attitude._

“Kitagawa Yusuke,” he responds, still facing the wall. “Not that you’ll have a need for it.”

Akira ignores the biting comment. “I’m Kurusu Akira.”

“A pleasure,” Kitagawa looks at him over his shoulder, but his expression is unamused at best. He was unhappy, but Akira didn’t care how he felt; it was for the better whether Kitagawa liked it or not.

He tugs harshly at the blankets, extracting a protest from Morgana.

That night he dreams in colors of blues and reds.


	2. Chapter 2

Akira realizes two things upon waking:

One, Morgana’s incessant meowing served a better alarm than any of the fancy jingles on his phone.

Two, The morning light isn’t stabbing his eyelids and there’s an ache pulsing at the back of his neck. He recognizes the hard fabric of the couch and last night’s memories hastily fit together like puzzle pieces. Movement still dripping with sleep, he rolls onto his other side. A morning greeting sits on his tongue...

...and the drowsiness is chased out of him faster than he can breathe.

Akira pushes himself to his feet, the familiar touch of panic lights his nerves at the bare mattress.

  
_Did Kitagawa leave while I was asleep...?_

His phone screen brightens to life as he checks the time. 6:04. Leblanc would be opening soon, and Sojiro’s phone number was probably still lying on the counter.

“ _Mraw... Mraw!!_ ”

“Not now, Morgana!” he snaps, making way to the stairs. It had been careless of him. Kitagawa’s sharp words and scathing tongue had left a bitter aftertaste. Akira should have known it was just a ruse. He can see in his mind’s eye Kitagawa practically _counting_ the seconds sleep took before finally drawing Akira into its embrace.

It had been stupid to believe Kitagawa, and he’d be getting an earful from Sojiro for this...

“So, you want to try the house blend?”

...Or he could get one a lot earlier than he was expecting. That’s fine too.

He halts midway down the stairs. Alright. All he had to do was explain that Kitagawa – oh yeah, Sojiro didn’t know his name yet, did he? – was a liar who would rather limp around Tokyo dodging ambulances instead of spending a night under a warm roof. Akira breathes in, then out, rehearses a poorly, improvised explanation in his mind before descending the remaining steps.

“There you are,” Sojiro greets.

Akira’s lips part to speak, but he nearly chokes on the words. “Kitagawa? You’re—”

Somewhere upstairs, he hears Morgana meow.

“Geez... Does that cat ever stop?” Sojiro mumbles, handing Kitagawa a cup. “Did you sleep alright? Feeling any worse?”

“Yes,” (Akira frowns.) “Thank you for the coffee, but I’m afraid I don’t have much money on me.”

“Don’t worry about that. Although your parents are probably worried. If you need to call them, you can use that phone.”

Akira slides a seat over, watches as Kitagawa takes a cautious sip. A part of him wonders if last night’s quarrel had just been out of fatigue on both of their parts. This Kitagawa was mild, kind and generous to Sojiro – not like the one who had sneered at the idea of Akira trying to stop him from leaving.

He should really pour himself a cup before school, preferably something strong to shock out yesterday’s events.

...As if.

“How peculiar,” Kitagawa muses. “This brew is quite acidic. I’m afraid I’ve never had anything like it before.” (Sojiro looks almost impressed. Or maybe he _genuinely_ was; it was never easy to tell.) “Although I will have no need for a phone. I don’t have parents anymore.”

The mood sinks like a stone in water. Suddenly the voices emitting from the streets are _very_ loud. Guilt rolls in his stomach, his mouth dries, and suddenly he’s not very thirsty anymore. An apology perches on the tip of his tongue, waiting for its cue to be released.

Sojiro rubs the back of his neck, frowning at a spot on the counter only he could see. “I... I’m sorry. That must have been terrible.”

“I’ve had enough time to get over it,” Kitagawa’s shoulders lift in a shrug. “Thinking about it now is an inconvenience.”

Akira blinks, unmindful of the astonishment that flickers in Sojiro’s eyes. “They’re your parents, though.” he says.

And for the first time that morning, Kitagawa looks at him.

“Oh. You’re here too?”

 _That_ sounded more like the Kitagawa from last night. “Kinda live here.”

Sojiro clears his throat. “Well... How are you feeling this morning?” he asks. “You said you lived in the Kosei dorms. Are you okay to go back?”

“Indeed—”

“—No.”

“What?” Kitagawa’s eyes are an unspoken warning.

Akira ignores him. “He woke me up in the middle of the night trying to leave and almost knocked over one of the shelves. While he may not have any injuries, I think it’s best he stays another night—”

“— _Kurusu_ —”

“—And it’s possible we could have underestimated the severity. But if he refuses to see a doctor, then the least I can do is make sure he’s okay to go back to the dorms,” Kitagawa’s jaw is set firm, lips twisted into a grimace, face creased in anger. “You need to transfer lines to get to Kosei, and if you can barely walk around my room, how do you expect to move from platform to platform?”

The chair screams loudly against the wooden floorboards, trembling in surprise. “Don’t treat me like a child. I am fully capable of taking care of myself.”

“Would you two cut it out?” Sojiro quips, breaking off with a sigh when they level him with a frown. “I wasn’t aware you were still getting dizzy spells, Kitagawa. While I don’t doubt you, Akira has a point: You won’t see a doctor. I don’t know your history with hospitals, but there’s a lady who works at the clinic here in Yongen. You can trust her.”

Silence drips in the space between them. Akira can feel the glare Kitagawa shoots him, but he doesn’t bother feeding him attention.

“...Or, if you’re this hell-bent on avoiding every doctor in existence,” he continues wryly. “Then I’m taking Akira’s side. I’m not doing this out of spite, but if you leave as you are now, you’re just going to make everyone worry.”

Craving for a hearty breakfast chased out of him, Akira rises from his seat. “I need to get to school,” he’s already tired. Great. “He can hang out in my room while I’m gone.”

Sojiro snorts. “Where else is he supposed to stay?”

Morgana’s watching the unfurling scene and propelling himself upstairs the instant Akira approaches. Whatever Sojiro says to Kitagawa falls on deaf ears. And it doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t plan on staying any longer than need be. He’d get to school early, see if they had any leftover _agepan_ , then hurry to class. Akira makes a mental note to visit the clinic at the corner of Yongen-Jaya before returning home.

He’s garbed in only the familiar plaid pants when he spots Kitagawa at the top of the stairs. “A little privacy?” Akira’s fingers twist in the fabric of the school shirt. He yanks at the hem, tugging it over his head.

“Sakura-san is preparing to open the store,” Kitagawa replies, unfazed by Akira’s half-dressed appearance. “I do not wish to get in the way.”

‘ _How generous,_ ’ he thinks wryly, shouldering his schoolbag.

Kitagawa frowns deeply. “Though you don’t seem to share the same mindset. At least when it comes to me,” his voice is a whip against the growing silence. “I do not need to be coddled like a child; you should let me go if you know what’s best.”

“Is that a threat?” Akira raises an eyebrow. “You’re not as generous as you make yourself out to be. I almost feel sorry for Sojiro.”

“Take it as you will, but do not underestimate me,” and, as if to prod at him even more, Kitagawa adds, “This entire situation could have been avoided had it not been for your carelessness.”

Akira grits his teeth, and he hears a one-note meow. “And it’s because of that why I feel it’s necessary you stay another night,” he shoos Morgana with his foot. “I’m going to be late. If you want to bother someone, Sojiro’s downstairs, but try not to get in his way.”

Morgana meows, and disdain becomes evident on Kitagawa’s face. “How annoying...”

“Get used to it,” Akira begins descending the stairs. “Morgana was here first.”

Kitagawa doesn’t try to stop him – which that alone is quite surprising. But Sojiro has at least _one_ question to fire before Akira leaves. “Did something happen between you two last night?”

He shrugs. “He tried to leave, I stopped him, and he didn’t like that,” he presses the door open, flipping the sign to ‘Open’, “Mind keeping an eye on him?”

“Don’t worry,” Sojiro scoffs. “Get to school; you’re gonna be late.”

Akira’s mind torments him with scenarios of Kitagawa trying to escape the entirety of the train ride. The window in the attic was stubborn, but with a little determination, it could be opened. And something told him Kitagawa was not lacking in the ‘determined’ department... The respect he showed towards Sojiro would be enough to root him in the attic until the afternoon... He hoped.

Kitagawa was odd. He didn’t want to see a doctor, he spoke formally, knew his coffee, literally _shrugged off_ at the thought of his late parents... Akira had been brought up to not judge others – every person had a different situation. But this was different. He wonders how much hell Kitagawa’s been put through, and he wonders if there’s a link between the distaste for hospitals and his parents. Perhaps there had been a doctor underserving of his position. Maybe he couldn’t help Kitagawa and his family and that’s what led to such indifference and hatred for his parents and the mere mention of hospitals respectively.

There’s a sharp prod at his side, rudely shoving him from his train of thoughts. He scowls, jabs back harshly with his elbow because he does _not_ have the patience this morning—

“ _Ow_!” Ryuji winces, hand pressed against his abdomen. “Come on, man, that smarts-!!”

Guilt twists his face, and he reaches out cautiously as Ryuji practically doubles over. “S-Sorry, I didn’t know it was you.”

He grimaces, “Something botherin’ you?”

Akira finds himself saying. “I got a roommate.”

Confusion and incredulity wrinkles along Ryuji’s face. “Wait... I don’t get it,” he holds his hands up as if to tell Akira to stop. “What do you mean- How the hell did you get a roommate?”

  
_I hit him with Sojiro’s car and he refuses to go to a hospital. So I’m keeping him hostage until he feels better._

“It’s a long story.”

Ryuji’s frown deepens. “He knows boss?”

Akira’s shoulders lift in a half-hearted shrug. “Sure,” reel it in; Ryuji’s not at fault for Kitagawa’s unpleasant attitude. “He does now. Trust me when I say it’s a long story.”

“That sounds suspicious…”

Nonchalantly: “I could’ve gone to jail.”

He blinks.

Akira fixes him with an equally blank stare.

“The _hell_!?”

A poor choice of words usually takes a handful of minutes – sometimes up to an hour – to quell the panic. Ill humor was not best fitted for the situation, considering that he really _could_ have gone to jail if Kitagawa Yusuke had wanted him to. Ryuji’s shock at the events (sans the whole ‘running someone over’ thing... There’d be time for that later) comes in the form of loud volume and equally noisy words, and Akira feels as if he’s ranting about Kamoshida all over again with the energy he’s putting in his voice.

Shujin Academy comes into view as they slip through the alleyway.

“Let me get this straight...”

Akira glances at the clock on his phone. 15 minutes.

“You go to Akihbara to pick up a video game for boss? – look, _that_ alone is weird enough – And then you run someone over in Yongen-Jaya, and now he wants to room with you?”

“Want is not the way I’d describe it.”

“But that’s weird, ain’t it? I mean, why wouldn’t he want to go to a hospital? Shouldn’t he be worried if anything’s broken?” Ryuji shuffles behind him loudly, sneakers clapping against the wet surface of cement. “What’re you gonna do?”

He’s not sure himself. “I can’t force him to stay. He’s probably fled out the window at this point.”

“Pfft, as if he could escape your hellion cat— oh, great.”

Akira hears before he sees him. Loud, but not in the same way as Ryuji. This tone demands attention, leaves little room for argument from those younger and maybe older too. Attached to this voice is the physical education teacher... as well as the volleyball coach, the track team coach, and just about every coaching position Shujin holds put into a man whose big-headed ego made up for his microscopic—

“Good morning,” Kamoshida Suguru calls with one of those PR smiles. “Hurry along; you don’t wanna be late for class!”

Ryuji rolls his eyes. “Like you give a shit...”

The warning glance Akira gives him goes unnoticed, and it would’ve been useless anyway with Kamoshida close by. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about yesterday, Sakamoto.”

“What?” it draws them _both_ to a halt. “The hell’re you talking about?”

“Leaving ten minutes early yesterday from a mandatory session,” he counters.

A scowl tugs at his face, and Akira glimpses his hands balling into fists. “I wasn’t cutting shit; all school activities end at the same time! You can’t make the rules for everything; you’re not the king of some freaking castle!”

“Better watch that attitude, Sakamoto,” Kamoshida’s voice takes on a dangerous edge, expression darkening. “You can hate my regime all you want, complain about it to your friends, but ditching is unacceptable. Do you expect to do well at the track meet without practicing?”

Ryuji isn’t one to back down, leveling him with a glare just as harsh. It’s the quietest Akira has heard Ryuji speak all morning. “Practice isn’t driving your team into the ground, coach. We’re not ‘star athletes’ like you, and smackin’ us around ain’t gonna make things better.”

There’s a heavy draw of silence. Students hurry by, heads lowered against the dreary weather, ignoring the near-tangible tension. Akira grasps Ryuji’s forearm, giving an insistent tug. “I don’t want to be late,” he says when their gazes latch. “Let’s go.”

“Afterschool it is then,” Kamoshida’s words snap against the air. “Speak to me like that again, and there’ll be a price to pay. Now get to class.”

He can practically feel Ryuji quivering with anger as they’re swallowed up by the school. There’s still 9 minutes available when Ryuji slams a fist against the one of the locker doors, startling nearby students.

“That son of a bitch...!”

They stare (let ‘em) before walking off in hushed whispers.

“He thinks this is all some big game! ‘Track meet’ my ass... He doesn’t give two shits about us let alone the damn meet!” Another swing at the metal surface. More stares. “This pisses me off! Hell, he’ll make someone stay after school just for looking at him funny!”

Akira’s gaze drifts to a darkened patch on the wooden floorboards. Before he arrived, supposedly there had been a leak in the ceiling that no one had bothered to plug. Students and would hurry to classes without a word. Soon he realized the school hadn’t overlooked it, but rather they didn’t want to deal with it. They were hoping time would eventually mend the source of the dripping. When the repairment had come, the stain had become permanent.

Kamoshida was a leak in the system the staff refused to repair. So long as he wasn’t pestering the faculty directly, he was as removeable as that wet spot on the ground. If someone stepped and slipped, it was on them, not Kamoshida. _Never_ Kamoshida.

It was sickening.

Ryuji shoves himself away from the lockers, mood souring fast. “Man, there’s no way in hell I’m gonna be able to listen for an hour...” he mutters, side-glancing at the school doors as if they are to blame.

“I’m not in any rush to get home this afternoon,” Akira says as they make way to the staircase. “I’ll stay after with you.”

He shakes his head, resigned. “Don’t bother. He’ll keep a few other students back no doubt. Plus, you got a roommate now, yeah?”

“Oh,” he supposes he did. “Right...”

Though Kitagawa would _prefer_ if Akira took his sweet time returning home.

“Don’t seem too eager about it,” Ryuji looks at him as they stand beside the door to class 2-A. “Well, Kosei _is_ an honors school. He’s probably one of those really smart students who has no social life.”

Akira pushes at the bridge of his glasses. “It’s a little more complicated than that. I wasn’t lying when I said I _could’ve_ gone to jail...”

“Dude...” Ryuji gives him a look. “What’d you do, threaten him?”

“I hit him with Sojiro’s car,” a pause. “On accident.”

“Wait, what? How do you—?”

The sound of approaching footsteps cuts Ryuji off. The worry and irritation of the morning’s confrontation assume it’s Kamoshida, but when he sees who it is, he’s not sure if this is _worse_. Kamoshida could hand out detentions under the guise of practice to the track and volleyball team. But Kawakami Sadayo had an advantage over Akira as his homeroom teacher.

Not that she’s held him after hours.

“Kurusu-kun,” there’s fatigue laced in her voice – as there always was. Most of the teachers at Shujin were enthusiastic or overly serious. Kawakami made her own category. “Class starts in 3 minutes. You and Sakamoto-kun will have plenty of time to catch up during your break.”

“Hold up,” Ryuji protests. “We were talking about... homework?”

Kawakami raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

...They should be going.

Shujin had been rather unwelcoming on his first day. For two weeks his name had been ground to ‘transfer student’. Between shared gossip, he was never ‘Kurusu-kun’ or ‘Kurusu-san’. First name had been – and still was – out of the question. ‘Transfer student’ this, ‘transfer student’ that. After all, who in their right mind went out of their way to enroll in Shujin? A school with an ex-medalist as the coach was the only thing it had going.

And an ex-medalist who was untouchable as far as the board was concerned.

Conversation dwindled and waned in room 2-D. By the window, his seat is unoccupied. He’s come to recognize some of his classmates, but not enough for his name to be upgraded to ‘Kurusu’. There are two he’s had the fortune of meeting through Ryuji, and for some reason, that’s enough for him.

Not friends, something in his mind corrects. Acquaintances.

Among the rest of the students, she’s a stark contrast to the dark hair and eyes. Flaxen hair, sharp blue eyes, Takamaki Ann was one of the few outside Ryuji to have treated him like a human being. Perhaps she too felt out of place.

Her attention is fixated on the window, seeing only something she can see. Closer inspection reveals her eyebrows are knit together in concentration. There are unspoken words surfing on the air around her. He does not know Takamaki, but he knows when she – anyone – needs space. To an outsider, one could assume the students shared his mindset.

No one talked to Takamaki. A hurtful truth, but the truth nonetheless.

Kawakami enters the room. Her words are more alert than they had been out in the hallway. A mention of a volleyball rally two weeks away, track meet, the exam week...

Beneath the drone of voices and words, Akira can’t stop from thinking of Kitagawa.

“And where are you going?”

Leblanc’s customers fix the unfolding scene with mildly curious attention.

“I was unable to find any paper upstairs,” Yusuke responds. Wasn’t it obvious? “If I’m to stay here, I need something to satiate my boredom.”

If there’s an expression for ‘unconvinced’, Sakura has it down pat. Maybe he’s trying to seem intimidating with the hard eyes and tight line of his mouth. For Yusuke, it doesn’t work. At all. “Well if that’s the issue, I have some crosswords. There should be a blank page or two in one of them.”

Aligned in a row on the counter are small books held in place by a white shelf stopper. ‘Crossword King’ seems to be the preferred brand of Sakura’s mini library. At most, they seem to be 3½ by 5½... Which makes them the perfect size for scrap.

“That won’t do,” his hand finds the doorknob again. “I need something larger.”

The bell chimes.

“Hey-!” Sakura maneuvers around the cash register. “You can’t just walk out!”

If the customers hadn’t been engaged then, they certainly are now. Pretending to stare at the plate of curry and rice, lifting the cup to their lips as they watched the T.V... It was all painfully obvious that their interest overrode any hunger or thirst.

The morning air is a new flavor compared to the overwhelming smell of coffee beans. He has half a mind not to take off, but something tells him not to upset Sakura further. Yusuke could outrun him – there was no doubt. Although he’s intrigued enough to let this play out. The customers were undoubtfully rubbing off on him.

Sakura doesn’t grab him, but he does stand closer to the door, hands shoved in pockets. “You’re still not feeling well,” he insists, and Yusuke notices how he glosses over details now that they’re under the spotlight. “If you want paper that bad, then I’ll run to the shop down the street.”

He hums thoughtfully. It’s preferred to walk out in Yongen during the day, and he still had some money left over so funds were certainly not an issue.

For now.

“I’d prefer to go there myself,” Yusuke admits. “But I appreciate your offer. You wouldn’t mind?”

Sakura scoffs, “It’s not that I don’t _mind_... You’d probably just walk out if I said ‘no’ anyway.”

“Indeed.”

“Just watch the store,” he pushes past him. “And if anyone new comes in, just try to be nice. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Sakura mumbles something under his breath as the door shuts behind him. “Thank you,” Yusuke says anyway.

There’s an awkward silence that sifts through the café save for the voices emitting from the television and the tinkling of silverware on ceramic. The news reporter on the screen prattles on about a miscellaneous topic he has little interest in. A train accident that successfully killed and harmed 53 people. It hadn’t been the first that month, and something told him it wouldn’t be the last. Instead, he only feels a prickle of annoyance.

It all came down to carelessness. Carelessness from the driver, carelessness from the people who hired those reckless drivers. But as much of a tragedy it was, it gave stories for the news to tell. Unless they told something that made the public’s jaw drop, the news was just as bland as the paper that filled the stands.

“Are you working part time here?”

From his spot behind the counter, Yusuke sees the speaker. A young woman with dark hair. Her punk style should contrast with the white lab coat she wears, but oddly enough, it fits her aesthetic. There’s a single cup on the table adjacent to her notepad.

“No,” he answers honestly. “I’m simply visiting for the time being.”

“I see.” (She’s observant. Take caution, his mind warns him.) “Sakura-san has someone working with him now. I thought you two might know one another.”

He’s starting to regret not taking a seat. Although he had not sustained major injuries, he’s still struck with the occasional wave of vertigo. Yusuke’s unsure of how to respond.

“Not much of a talker…” she muses. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. Have you been taking care of yourself?”

The note of warning has turned into an all-out scream.

It’s almost humorous. When had he last thought of himself?

‘ _This morning,_ ’ something in his head quips. It sounds suspiciously like Kurusu.

His fingers curl inwards towards his palm, jaw tightening. The entire situation had been Kurusu’s fault, and now he couldn’t escape him in the comfort of his own mind. If Kurusu had been paying attention while driving, Yusuke wouldn’t have had to stay the night nor the following day at Leblanc. A logical side of him protests that Kurusu at least cared, that he was aware of his mistake. The stubborn, more dominant part of him seeks a scapegoat.

Pushing down the rising annoyance that climbs up his throat, Yusuke swallows. “I believe so...”

The suspended words are the right amount of hesitation. “Pardon my intrusion. My name’s Takemi Tae. I work at the clinic here in Yongen,” Takemi sets down her cup on the platter. “I don’t normally check in customers without some form of insurance, but this is the first time Sakura-san’s taken someone in because they were feeling ‘unwell’.”

“You misunderstand,” Yusuke responds lamely. He side-eyes the door, anticipating Sakura’s return. The sooner he could retreat to Akira’s room, the better. “There’s been an increase of workload at my school.”

She does not ask for proof – why would a doctor care for homework? – watching as he disrupts the line of crosswords. The characters are a mess of black ink, meanings lost in the mosaic of a distracted mind, of focus being split into two. He’s been the subject of observant eyes one too many times. They were all the same: difficult to shake off, quick to return to a topic he would desperately try to avoid.

(Kurusu was like this.)

He flips to the next page, hoping to sweep away even more distracting thoughts.

Precise scrawl fills the once blank boxes of the crossword puzzles. Sakura was quite dedicated to this hobby. Although Yusuke himself never saw the appeal of brain teasers. It was difficult to resist the temptation to ‘check’ by flipping to the back, rotating the book upside down to read the corrections.

“Here,” Sakura drops the sketchpad by his hand, handling the pack of pencils with the same amount of gentleness. “I thought you weren’t interested.”

He slides the crossword back into place. “I’m not,” ...Hm. 2B pencils, a pad featuring at least 50 sheets with no description regarding the type of paper. He has half a mind to run a line against the surface, but Sakura paid for this; doing so would be rude. Besides, he’d find out soon enough.

Coins clap against the tabletop as Takemi rises from her seat, tucking her notes into one of her pockets. “Thank you for the coffee, Sakura-san,” and, much to his chagrin, she turns to Yusuke. “I reiterate my offer. No matter where you live, I don’t want someone getting hurt because they didn’t care to look after themselves.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he struggles to sand the edges of his words.

A small frown crinkles around the corners of her eyes. “Very well,” she concludes... or so he wants to believe.

He doesn’t.

Although he watches her retreating back, something tells him it’s not the last time he’ll see this very image.

Sakura knows better than to pry. And if he does, he has enough courtesy not to. “You know, if you’re bored, you could always help out down here. I could use an extra hand while he’s away.”

“I don’t know how to brew,” Yusuke answers honestly.

He fetches the cup and currency. “Neither did Akira. Took him a while, but he eventually learned to make a cup all on his own.”

Kurusu Akira. That name was going to haunt his dreams with how casually it was thrown around, how easily it weaved in and out of his ears. The comparison makes his stomach churn.

Yusuke finds himself shaking his head. “Thank you for buying these. I will find a way to repay your generosity,” he pauses. “I’m not against the idea of helping you run your store, but please... give me a day.”

He needs to focus on art, drawing whatever came to mind. Leblanc was slowly crawling its way up to first place on his list of ideas.

“Take your time,” Sakura responds. “And don’t worry about paying me back.”

His feet against the floorboards drum loudly in his head. “I will though. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Do what you want.”

The cover of the sketchpad has been flipped by the time he’s made it to the top of the stairs. There’s a barren shelf adjacent to Kurusu’s bed, the very one he almost knocked over. Now that he looks at it, he’s never seen a shelf so bare. He can picture different souvenirs placed at intervals. It’s old, but with the right amount of accessories, it would be eye-catching.

Morgana is curled up on the pillow, back facing the window.

While it takes away his desired seat, it also presents him a new theme. Leblanc was worth filling the pages, but this is the first time he’s seen Morgana so still. Well, first time since he’s had the somewhat proper drawing utensils.

He sits on the chair at the foot of the bed, turning it until he has the right angle. Against the scraping of wood against wood, Morgana sleeps.

It’s not even a full minute when he makes his first mistake on the drawing. The eraser sheds thin orange slivers, leaving that irritating streak on parchment. A noise of irritation rumbles in his throat. He should’ve known the cheap stores in Yongen wouldn’t have the right kind of art products.

The drawers of Kurusu’s work desk are devoid of objects save for a few tools. A wrench, screwdriver... Were those lockpicks? Yusuke turns one in his hand, sticks one into the socket of the bottom drawer. Yusuke’s never really _picked_ a lock before, so he jostles it with a curiosity reminiscent of a child. The more he thinks about it, Kurusu probably doesn’t have a _reason_ for keeping things locked up – it was his room after all.

He returns to the rough sketch of a curled-up Morgana, tail brushing his nose, face relaxed. The current progress is messy, and probably wouldn’t be an issue if it weren’t for that blasted eraser streak.

 _‘Interesting_ , he thinks bitterly as he scrunches up the page. ‘ _He’s quite photogenic when he keeps his mouth shut._ ’

Morgana stretches, buries his face in his paws.

The ball smacks against her arm, she flinches, backpedals before unlocking her palms and rubbing the spot that’s _bound_ to sprout a new bruise. Her gym uniform is hot in the crawling humidity of the room, and the running around _certainly_ isn’t helping. The look Takamaki Ann gives Suzui Shiho is a mix of feigned offense, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“Still got it, Shiho,” Ann says as she slips under the net. “I’m fine.”

Shiho looks anyway. “Sorry, I’ll get you some ice—”

“Really, don’t worry about it!” Ann plucks the volleyball, tossing it in Shiho’s direction. “You really are a good server. Shujin doesn’t know how lucky they are to have you on their side.”

Pink dusts Shiho’s cheeks as she smiles timidly. “There are others a lot better than me, Ann,” comes her modest reply. “I do my best for my team.”

Her sneakers screech against the floor as she turns—

—the black band around her leg sidles, exposing a flower of darkened skin. Without so much as a glance, Shiho’s fingers grasp the fabric and slides it back into place. Ann’s heart jumps into her throat. Her feet propel her forward, words perched on her tongue as her mouth parts to speak—

“Takamaki-san is right.”

His voice is a knife to her heart that cowers against her Adam’s apple. Her hair whips her cheeks as she slams her eyes to the floor. Frustration boils in her stomach, teeth grinding together as Kamoshida walks over, expression arrogant and so damn tempting to mash in with her fist.

But she doesn’t have the courage to do that. She doesn’t have the army to catch her.

Kamoshida did. He had connections that spread their roots beyond the school gates to catch him when _he_ fell.

Ann never had the luxury of that.

She’s close to yelling at him to get his disgusting eyes off them – off _Shiho_ – but opts to bite the inside of her lip. Endure it, endure it...

“Thank you, sensei,” Shiho’s quiet when she meets Kamoshida’s snaring gaze. She endures it too, Ann knows.

Kamoshida grins. It is an unattractive sight. “Don’t forget about practice after school. You’re free to join too, Takamaki-san. Suizui-san could use a partner besides me. It’d help you stay in fit for you next modelling session, yeah?”

Her arms fold themselves across her chest. ‘ _How dare you look at me like that..._ ’ She swallows, heart settling back in her chest. “I... I suppose.”

It is Shiho’s voice that reaches her ears, not his. “It’s alright. Ann— I mean, Takamaki-san is very busy after school, so I don’t mind,” the smile doesn’t reach her eyes as she looks to Ann. “Isn’t that right, Takamaki-san?”

An unspoken command... no, a _request_ , don’t stay after school, don’t worry about me, don’t worry, don’t worry, get away from him. It’s a mantra to a God that turns with His fingers in his ears. “Wait, that’s...”

“You don’t want to be late like last time.”

The pieces clink together loudly in her head, ringing as they ricochet against her eardrums.

 _Shiho_... the name drags across the dustbowl of her mind. There’s an invisible pressure crushing her windpipe, threatening to strangle her against the ground if she thinks of stepping out of line.

(Through the corner of her eye, Kamoshida watches the scene unfurling like the lazy flower petals in spring.)

Disgust bubbles in Ann’s stomach again, splitting between her and Kamoshida. She feels her head dip in a slow nod.

“Yeah, I have a session today,” relief from Shiho, frustration from herself. “I can’t miss it.”

“I see,” if Kamoshida is unconvinced, he does not show it. He struggles to hide the thinly veiled frustration. “Class is almost over, so just keep doing what you’re doing.”

She’s only taken a step towards Shiho when his voice halts her again. Somehow, in that moment, facing his back is more intimidating than facing his front.

“Suzui-san, I need to see you in my office,” he says. “You have something to makeup as well.” (The color that fills Shiho’s face _drains_.) “It won’t take long, and I can write you a pass if you end up running late.”

And that alone is too much.

“Right now? She doesn’t have a lot of time between class!” Ann protests, her words weakening as she shuffles the excuse to and fro. “I’ll go with her, that way you don’t have to worry about excusing her...”

He turns, levels them with a frown. “I’m aware of that, but it’s the same for you, isn’t it, Takamaki-san? If you’re both late, how will that work in either of your favors? I won’t be able to cover if they suspect you were cutting.”

“Ann,” Shiho grips her forearm. No honorifics. _Stop_. “It’s alright. I’ll see you later.”

Twice. It is two times Shiho protects Ann. It is zero times Ann protects Shiho.

(Through the white noise in her ears, she distantly hears Kamoshida call to the remainder of the class, tells them to continue until he returns.)

“You coming, Suzui-san?”

Ann starts, “Shiho—”

“Bye, Ann.” No room for argument.

They depart from the gym, leaving her with students who did little to help. Whispers, gossip that sting her back as she follows after Kamoshida and Shiho follow her down the hall. She sees them round the corner, up the stairs, and her feet carry her in the opposite direction. To the ladies’ room.

More stares, more words, endure, endure, endure—

The door slams open,

(why bother with the lock?)

and she’s barely over the toilet by the time the vomit explodes past her lips.

 **RYUJI [13:25].** you an ann have the same homeroom.

 **RYUJI [13:26].** she there?

The empty desk had been a suspicion crawling under his skin the instant he sat down. He can’t shake the trepidation. As Ms. Chouno turns away, he responds.

 **AKIRA [13:27].** No.

 **RYUJI [13:27].** [...]

 **RYUJI [13:28].** dammit.

 **RYUJI [13:30].** some in my classre sayin’ she got in a fight with kamoshida, and he left with suzui.

 **AKIRA [13:31].** What?

 **RYUJI [13:31].** [...]

Seconds drip by, ellipses blink in and out of his screen.

“Kurusu-kun?”

 _Dammit_. He looks up, shoving the phone away.

“Would you care to explain the origin of the word—”

The question is cut off by the opening of the door. He wouldn’t have to answer the question, but the person in the doorway gives rise to a new problem. Takamaki Ann looks absolutely drained as she apologizes for her tardiness. There’s the small babble of teenage gossip – (“Takamaki-san?”, “I heard she was with that guy from 3-C”, “But Chidori-san also said Takamaki-san was in the bathroom this whole time”, “Oh, eww!”, “So she did it during school hours? Woooww, no class...”) – and he has half a mind to tune it out. It’s almost concerning how false rumors stick to her with every step.

He does not speak when she sits, fumbling with the phone back on his lap. It would take less than 30 seconds to send off a quick notice to Ryuji. But in the beginning of those 30 seconds, he catches the way she swipes at her left eye, sniffling softly. The remaining seconds are filled with students settling back into silence as Ms. Chouno takes hold of the reins.

“Where were we...? Oh yes, Kurusu-kun!”

Akira inwardly flinches.

Shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up.

It’s a coincidence, he decides.

Somehow Takamaki’s eyes are more distant, the energy in her steps simmered to a weak drag, yet they _still_ manage to bump into each other as Akira rounds the corner of the school gate.

“Sorry,” it’s automatic, recited words.

Takamaki shakes her head. “No, it’s alright,” Realization lights up her face as their eyes meet. “Oh, Kurusu-kun.”

She gives a fake smile. They worked wonders on strangers – and to Takamaki, he _was_ a stranger. But he’s adjusted himself to the art of fake smiling for a long time now. It was impossible to fool him with something he normally practiced.

“You waiting for Sakamoto?”

Akira wonders in that moment if Ryuji would be upset for telling the truth. “No, he’s busy today.”

“Busy?” she seems to slip on another mask. Thinly veiled suspicion, guarded. “With... what?”

“Practice,” he swallows, the word burning his tongue as if it were a touch of acid.

The mask cracks. Takamaki turns away, fist at her side, eyes narrowed but glassy. “Him too, then...” she takes a step away, pulling her phone from her pocket and her lips tug into that fake smile again. “Sorry, I gotta get home. Don’t wanna be late or anything!”

“Too?” he echoes.

Takamaki freezes, false mirth dropping. “Huh?”

“Said ‘too’...” he presses cautiously. A wrong button pushed is something he does not want to see. Not when she looks so distressed.

“It’s- Don’t worry,” her expression darkens, and she tightens her grip on the bag strap. “There’s nothing we can do about it.”

 _Nothing we can do_. It had been like that before, and it was like that now. Nothing ever really changed. Ryuji had voiced his own hopelessness in the form of anger, a frustration that yearned for justice for the track team, for the unfortunate students of Kamoshida. Takamaki... He doesn’t know much. Rumors were unreliable, stories to entertain bored children.

But she’s not free of Kamoshida’s gaze either.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Kurusu-kun,” There’s a touch of a smile on her lips, and it’s the most genuine one he’s seen. Tired, but it’s there.

Feet rooted to the spot, he can only watch as she slips into the crowd of departing students. Eventually a student bumps into him, gives him an offended look despite the apology Akira gives, and he makes way for the station.

Ryuji, Kamoshida, Takamaki...

The names are a repeat in his head, a record that won’t stop blaring the problems that surround them. They are conflicts that cannot be solved from where he stands now. An imbalance of power did not make for a fair world. But imbalance... it was everywhere. And it did _not_ belong at a school.

He realizes, a dark anger sparking in his stomach, that there’s nothing more frustrating than helplessness.


	3. Chapter 3

She hates the smell of lilies.

“Large flowers if you have them”, requested by one customer who pays more attention to her phone than the ones putting together her bouquet.

The truth was, between Beef Bowl and the convenience store on Central Street, Rafflesia paid much more despite its status as a part-time job. Money had never been a problem for her growing up but working gave her an excuse. Very rarely did they receive male customers unless one came for what her coworker dubbed “apology flowers” or flowers for a much somber occasion. Then there were those that had a genuine preference for the floral world.

Ann doesn’t expect _him_ to show up. Unless the petals were made of gold, flowers just made the grass and mud beneath his shoes more colorful.

It’s a comedic twist of irony. And she doesn’t mind it much because when was the last time something funny occurred in her life? If she was under Shujin’s roof, she could not escape Kamoshida. But here in the Underground Mall, locking herself in the _last_ place he would visit, she was safe.

The customer takes the bundle of flowers with a quick ‘thank you’, taking the reek of the lilies with her.

Frugal pay. Meaning she hadn’t been satisfied with the combination. It shouldn’t matter, but she feels the prickle of disappointment as she finishes counting the coins.

“Takamaki-san,” her boss, Hanasaki calls from the back of the store. It takes her a few seconds to register that she’s holding a phone out to her. A frown lines Hanasaki’s face, but Ann can’t tell if it’s directed at her or not. “It’s for you, and they’re saying it’s an emergency.”

Her thoughts draw to a halt. An emergency meant someone was hurt, that something was wrong. The amount of people who had her number could be counted on one hand. _Calm down, you don’t know what it is yet._ “Oh, can I...?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hanasaki assures, the trace of the frown poking through her smile. “I hope everything’s okay.”

It takes her a second to realize the phone is not hers. She’s not sure if it’s the blank phone case or the lack of a phone charm swinging against her knuckles, but the same confusion that lined Hanasaki’s face surges through Ann.

 _‘Why are they calling her?’_ She brings it to her ear. “Hello?”

“ _Ah, Takamaki-san!”_

There were reasons she went as far to turn off her _own_ phone at work. One) It was in her job description to be “100% focused for customers!”, and two) Hanasaki didn’t appreciate when other workers dabbled on their phone.

And three)

“ _How are you?_ ”

Numbness drips from her fingers down to her very feet, trickling through her skin to her veins. There were many things that could stun her into silence, but there were few that left her feeling cornered. Somehow, through the jumble of shock and disbelief, she finds her voice.

“Why do you have this number?”

Kamoshida’s laugh is the harsh bite of wind against her cheek during winter: Stinging, a nuisance, and no complete way to protect herself from it. “ _Well, you had it down as a reference. Since you weren’t answering your phone, I had to improvise.”_

Something churns in her stomach and the bile slowly rides up her throat. She can’t deal with this right now. Not when there are other people around.

“ _I would apologize for interrupting your modeling session, but Hanasaki-san runs that store in Shibuya,”_ he continues, as if discussing the causality of weather. “ _Meaning you must not have been honest with Suzui-san. Oh, and since we’re on the topic of your friend...”_

She feels as if she’s toeing the edge of a steep cliff, about to take a plunge where the currents would suck her under. It was an offer Kamoshida gave with two fingers crossed behind his back. And there was a time where her innocent self would have acted upon it, taken it up without a second thought.

“ _Unfortunately, Suzui-san’s skills aren’t meeting the requirements for the team. It’d be a shame if someone with her dedication didn’t make the cut. Especially when there_ is _a way to save her a seat,”_ a pause, and she knows the words that are to come, the ones he always chose with such confidence. “ _You do want her to succeed, don’t you?_ ”

“Of course!” a knot forms in her throat and the pressure builds behind her eyes. “I already told you that I’d do it, but I just need more time!”

 _“Cut the shit, Takamaki,_ ” the neutral tone is sanded off by his impatience. “ _You’ve been giving the same damn excuse for the past three weeks. Don’t think I won’t have her removed if you don’t hold your end of the deal.”_

She doesn’t realize she’s clenching her teeth until she feels the twinge of pain lance through her jaw. Angrily, she swipes at her eyes with her sleeve, fabric catching the tears that begin to push free.

In the background, Hanasaki gathers a bushel of red and white flowers.

“ _Should I take your silence as the final answer?_ ” he sighs, and that plastic concern leaks into his voice again. “ _What a shame. I thought you cared enough for your friend. Guess there’s nothing to you aside from a pretty face._ ”

“Shut up!” her voice explodes from her like gunshot, and she feels eyes bore into her back. Maybe Hanasaki calls her name in worry, maybe the customer does too, but she’s too tangled in her emotions to care. “What’s your problem?! Aren’t you supposed to be a teacher?”

“ _Don’t compare me to them. What have they accomplished that I haven’t?”_ there’s a smacking noise that claps into her ear. It bounces once, twice – a volleyball, she concludes. _“I’m not the one with a problem here. Your friend on the other hand is, and it’s a shame you won’t help her when I’m giving you a chance._ ”

Hanasaki’s phone trembles in her grasp.

“ _My door’s always open, Takamki-san. But the longer you take, the less chance she has._ ”

“Hey, hold on a minute—”

  
_Beep._

Ann inhales sharply, phone screen blinking back to Hanasaki’s home screen. Unsure of what to do, she leaves it on the table adjacent to the sink. Her teeth pinch her lower lip, her face feels wet, and she crouches down, curling towards herself.

She stands at a crossroads that leads to a dead end no matter which path she takes. Shiho’s very scholarship relied on the title of ‘regular’, but Ann was at risk too. For once, she can’t bring herself to do this for Shiho. They’ve gone through middle school and high school as best friends, buying things for one another on holidays or just because. But this was a price that money could not cover, and a favor that Shiho could never repay. She doesn’t know _what_ she would do if Kamoshida...

“Takamaki-san,” Hanasaki kneels, a timid hand planting itself on Ann’s shoulder. “Is everything alright?”

Ann shakes her head. “No, but... I will be.” Would she though? “It’s just school stuff, nothing more.”

Silence drips between them.

That’s right. There’s no way her boss can help. Nobody could.

“Excuse me, are you still open?”

“Ah, we are,” Hanasaki rises from her crouch. “Why don’t you head home after this order?”

She feels herself nod, hating herself for leaving in the middle of her shift. Sometimes though, it was too much. _Especially_ when Kamoshida was involved. “Thank you, I will,” Ann says, allowing Hanasaki to pull her to her feet. “I’m sorry about this.”

“Don’t be,” she assures gently. “Take all the time you need.”

The lump that forms in her throat this time is not tied to frustration. “Um, Hanasaki-san?”

“Hm?”

“You should block that number,” she twists a strand of hair around her finger. “I put you down as a reference for an application, but I wasn’t expecting them to reach out to you like that.”

Hanasaki blinks at her request. Truly it _did_ sound odd, now that she thinks about it. But— “Sure, I can do that.”

That alone is a breath of respite, even if only a little.

“Before you leave, could you grab a light-colored flower? I’ll let you choose which one.”

Her eyes flit to their customer, a young woman, who smiles softly. “Oh! Coming right up!” Ann fumbles to the containers of yellow and white flowers. She can’t put a name to any of them, except the lilies. Their smell is just as overwhelming as it was when they were first shipped in.

Peels of grand white petals, a yellow stamen and green stem... The last time she saw them outside of Rafflesia

(a jar sitting innocently on a desk, the reek of a lily reaching her from her spot by the door, Kamoshida’s grin as he compared her to that very flower)

was in a place she never wanted to be in.

Ann selects one with light yellow petals.

She still hates the lilies.

\--

Leblanc is at its busiest when the sun sits in the center of the sky. As it descends, so does the activity. Today must be an exception. He counts at least six people in the booths and one person at the bar. The first thing his mind orders him to do is grab the apron from upstairs after talking to Sojiro.

Akira swipes an empty saucer lying on the table closest to the door. Leftover curry and bits of rice streak across its surface.

“Hey,” Sojiro’s voice catches him as he slides the plate into the sink. “Your friend’s waiting for you upstairs.”

Friend. Interesting choice of word. “Don’t you need any help?”

“Well, it’d be nice, but by the looks of it, you could use a break. Rough day?”

How _did_ he look? He felt the all too familiar weight under his eyes that only happened when fatigue clung to both mind and limbs. An ill combo, but an all too common one that overstayed its welcome the instant Kamoshida entered his life.

Only a half-hearted, one note laugh escapes him. “You could say that...”

Sojiro has enough sense not to pry – at least when others are around. A man of words is not how Akira would describe him. A good listener, but advice was not always his forte. He had his moments though... This just happened to not be one of them:

“Take the night off,” to make it worse: “Oh, and I told Yusuke he could walk around Yongen-Jaya so long as he was with you. He seemed steady on his feet this morning.”

Earlier, he would have protested; Kitagawa had been as steady as a newborn colt last night. Although he’d be lying if he said he wouldn’t have gotten a kick out of Kitagawa stumbling into the bookshelf by his bed. If he didn’t want to listen to Akira, a little pain of his own accord would teach him.

His shoulders lift in a shrug. “That’s fine,” a pause. “How was he today?”

“Why not ask him yourself?” he increases the volume on the hanging T.V. “Go on then. If you want to head out, be my guest. Just stay in Yongen.”

He’s already gotten his dosage of fresh air for the day, but he excuses himself anyway, intent on inviting Kitagawa outside. Maybe this would soften the wedge between them. He’d be able to think of something outside of school too.

Morgana announces his arrival, and Akira opens his mouth to speak only for the words to dissolve on his tongue. So he stands there, slack-jawed at the paper- no, _drawings_ decorating every tier of the book self, covering every inch of his work desk, scattered around his floor like the autumn leaves in Inokashira Park. Some depict Morgana in various sleeping poses-

( _there’s one where Morgana is sitting still. As if_ modeling. _He’s not sure how Kitagawa got him to stay so still_ )

-others feature bits of Leblanc’s interior. And then there are sketches of fantastical landscapes where ancient architecture stretches their towers to an endless sky.

But it wasn’t the fact his room was a mess, no. As much as the clean-freak in him exclaims, he’s drawn to Kitagawa who’s sitting cross-legged on his bed. His sketchpad sits in his lap. The sound of graphite against paper whisper in the quiet of the room. He’s wrapped in concentration, and if anything, Akira thinks he’s _too_ focused.

Narrowed eyes, lips in a tight line, fingers woven meticulously around the body of the pencil, and he goes to brush stray strands of navy-blue hair that sidle into his line of sight. He doesn’t know Kitagawa, but he has become familiar with his frown and the frustration that comes with it – mostly directed at Akira himself. This frown is different. It’s not anger, he realizes, it’s focus. It’s a new side to Kitagawa that’s surprisingly tolerable.

  
  


His feet carry him to the couch, mindful of the pencil drawings. Morgana’s food bowl and water that sit between the desk and the bed are once again untouched.

(Reminder: No fatty tuna or sneaking him bits of curry until he’s conditioned to like pellet food.)

“Watch your step!” Kitagawa snaps, words lashing at Akira’s side. “I have put much of my time into these, and I would appreciate if you didn’t ruin them with more carelessness.”

 _There’s_ that lovable attitude.

“Is there a reason why my room looks like you massacred a sketchpad?” he responds, picking up the sketch by his foot. Morgana, belly up, paws drawn to his face and eyes closed. It’s cute, and quite an elegant drawing.

Kitagawa looks as amused as Sojiro does on Monday mornings. “How rude. This ‘massacre’ is what I will use to fill every corner of this barren wasteland.”

“I didn’t ask you to decorate,” he counters.

Akira’s seen many cocky-ass smirks in his life before. Some were laughable while others were just annoying. Kitagawa’s makes Akira want to slap it off his face. “Rejoice, for when I am finished, it will be one less dull thing about you.”

“You’re being difficult.”

“I’ve been told.”

He counts to ten in his head. They shouldn’t argue while there were still customers loitering about downstairs. The last thing he wanted on top of Kitagawa’s cold behavior was a scolding from Sojiro. Rational response: Invite him to walk around Yongen. Emotional response: Tell him to shut his trap and go bug Sojiro or _so help him_ —

...Rational was better.

Deep breath, exhale... Better. For now. He speaks, unmindful as Kitagawa returns to his drawing, “I’m going for a walk. You want to come with?”

The pencil’s murmuring all but fades as Kitagawa shifts his attention to Akira. “I suppose I could use supplies...”

“Isn’t one sketchbook good enough?”

“I meant food,” Kitagawa dismisses, sliding from the bed and depositing the book on the work desk. “Let’s be off then.”

Morgana trails them to the top of the stairs.

Akira shoots him a warning glance. “Eat.”

“ _Mraw..._ ”

And Akira thinks he’s mishearing things when Kitagawa chuckles at Morgana’s response. He waits for the explanation – what was so amusing? – but it never comes. So he checks the screen of his phone just... because he needs something to do before he loses his mind to Kitagawa’s odd mannerisms.

The clicking of ceramic upon ceramic and tired voices stream into his ears, and he’s glad he can find comfort in that when the approach of a headache is too close for his liking.

Sojiro has the cover folded back on one of those crosswords again. It’s the same one from last week. Perhaps if he had time, he could try to solve the questions Sojiro was struggling with.

“We’ll be back.” Akira says. Kitagawa nods in agreement before opening the door.

“Just in Yongen.”

“Of course.”

He should’ve laid a few ground rules before wandering outside. A part of him does feel guilty for monitoring Kitagawa the way he does. The other part argues that it’s for the better. Especially when Kitagawa looks like he’s about to fall over beneath the touches of sunlight. Akira keeps his hands shoved in his pockets as he approaches. Close enough to catch Kitagawa if he were to fall, but far enough that he doesn’t overstep boundaries.

There’s a prickle of concern poking at his brain. “You alright?”

“Yes,” Kitagawa mutters, hand still clamped against his head as he blinks hard. “Do not be alarmed; this happened earlier as well.”

Akira’s not. In fact, he almost _expected_ this type of response from Kitagawa. “If you tell me what you want, I can go get it for you.”

“Hm,” his hand falls back to his side. “I appreciate it, but now that I’m breathing fresh air, I would not respond well to retiring so early.”

Well. He tried. “Come on,” he says, taking a step ahead of Kitagawa, but close enough to keep him in his peripheral vision. “It gets busy in the evening, so let’s grab what you need and go back.”

“I should have enough expenses to cover necessities. Although, I hope I can rely on you if something goes over the price range,” Kitagawa is almost nonchalant about the whole issue, as if Akira covering his rear in the form of paper and coins is no big deal.

He almost rolls his eyes. _Almost._ “Fine. I got paid, whatever.”

A normal person would detect irritation. But Kitagawa was also the person who got hit by a car and bristled at the idea of visiting the doctor. The apology, the backpedal that Kitagawa _should_ do _,_ is not present. He’s not sure what he was expecting.

“Good,” there was that smug look again.

As they walk, Kitagawa regards Yongen with childlike curiosity. Akira finds himself waiting not once but twice when something catches his eye. Whatever it is, Akira initially doesn’t care enough to ask, but he _does_ find Kitagawa’s mannerisms... bizarre.

He isn’t just looking, Akira realizes. He’s observing with a trained eye. Occasionally, he makes a frame with his forefingers and thumbs with the sketchbook tucked awkwardly beneath his arm. His actions draw stares and gossiping alike, but if Kitagawa notices, he doesn’t show it, nor does he stop. Still, Akira wonders what could be so interesting about a freaking abandoned theater, and he also wonders why they’re wasting time looking at said theater when they should be checking off Kitagawa’s invisible shopping list!

When he shows no sign of moving, Akira walks over, mentally counting to ten for whatever snark Kitagawa intends to throw at him.

“Something wrong?”

He lowers his hands, not bothering to spare Akira a glance. “This place has aged quite well.” Confusion must show itself on his face because Kitagawa is giving him that look again: the one that says he doesn’t have time for Akira’s ignorance. “It’s been around for a long time, hasn’t it?”

“I... suppose,” Akira nudges at his glasses.

Kitagawa’s eyes slide to the grocery store across the street. “We should get going,” he says simply, brushing back at a lock of hair. “I don’t want to repay Sakura-san’s generosity by being late.”

The theater’s windows are dark, and not once had he seen it alive with the lights that decorated its walls and front. As far as he knew, it was out of business, but he doesn’t intend on telling this to Kitagawa. He’s not sure what was so eye-catching about it either. Perhaps Kitagawa was one of those people who were fascinated by old buildings. The only thing missing was a camera.

“Are you coming?”

Wasn’t that his line?

Akira says nothing, following Kitagawa into the belly of the store. As he’s hit with the cool air, he realizes how little he’s been to this store, how much he’s relied on Sojiro to do all the shopping.

They’re not even five minutes into the store when Akira feels overcome by that all-too-familiar exasperation.

“Hey,” his fingers grip Kitagawa’s sleeve. “What are you doing?”

When Kitagawa mentioned food, Akira was thinking along the lines of snack packs, small bentos, or maybe an onigiri for a quick breakfast. Not a pack of _abura-age_ , tofu, and raw fish... Did Kitagawa intend on using the stove? Did he even know how to _cook_?

He blinks. “Shopping.”

“This alone,” Akira snatches the pack of _abura-age._ “is 1,000 yen, and that—” a gesture with his free hand to the pack of fish. “—Sojiro doesn’t have too much room in the fridge because of curry. You can use my room to store food; you don’t need to keep anything downstairs.”

“But—” the confliction that flits across Kitagawa’s face is foreign. He had prepared himself for disdain, a lecture about him not knowing better. To say the least, he is rather surprised when it doesn’t come. “It’s been too long since I’ve last had sushi.”

Akira imagines that if Kitagawa were a cat, he would’ve left the bowl upstairs untouched as well. He’s pulled the short straw having two ‘roommates’ with the most complicated palate. “We can get it later; my wallet can’t take too much strain.”

“Hrm...”

Unsurprisingly, Kitagawa talks less as they wander aimlessly through small aisles. Akira notes the copious amounts of junk food (mainly those weird Jagariko sticks), but he doesn’t want to dash whatever remains of Kitagawa’s decent mood. He wants to finish this uneventful shopping spree and head back home. Though he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t worried about Takamaki and Ryuji.

His, no, _their_ hands were tied.

And for a moment, he’s envious of Kitagawa.

Kosei at least didn’t have a twisted teacher in their barracks

(as far as he knew)

and Leblanc was a fair distance away from Kitagawa’s school. If there was a monster like Kamoshida, Kitagawa was gaining a bit of respite whether he liked it or not.

They’ve spent at least three minutes in the same aisle when the annoyance coaxes the words forward. He fixes him with a look that is enough to get across the irritation... he hopes. “Are you ready yet?”

“May I ask what the rush is?” Kitagawa scrapes something off the shelf.

It takes him a handful of seconds to realize he doesn’t _quite_ know how to respond. No, there wasn’t a _need_ to rush, but the longer he’s with Kitagawa, the closer his head will split open from any impending migraines. “Homework,” he eventually says. “Lots of it.”

“Nothing I can’t help you with, but very well.”

Akira frowns, hurrying after him. “You sound confident.”

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?” he asks, lining up products on the conveyor belt. “I doubt you have to think much in any of your classes.”

What a back-handed comment. “Asshole...”

“Mind your language.”

The cashier greets them with a smile and kind words and he wonders what cycles through her head at the sight of the jagariko, pocky, and other snack packs that would undoubtfully be tucked under the mattress and every crevice of his room. At least she doesn’t comment on the hostility between him and Kitagawa.

He finds a slight bit of relief in having to only pay 540 yen for the amount Kitagawa could not cover with his own expenses, and he has enough courtesy to thank Akira. Although in front of strangers, it was important to hold up appearances.

Three bags – two for Kitagawa, one for Akira – and they leave. The sun has begun its slow descent and the people in Yongen settle into their habitual schedule of strolling the streets or returning to the row of buildings tucked in alleyways.

“Thank you for the assistance,” Kitagawa eventually says, and Akira’s struck by the genuine feel of his gratitude. “I understand how tiring it is to return home from a long day only to complete evening tasks.”

“Sure,” not ‘any time’, or ‘you’re welcome’; it opened a second opportunity to shop for Kitagawa. Though... it’s rude to just shrug him off completely. “Is your head any better?”

He hums neither an affirmative or negative. “It’s difficult to tell without the proper checkup.”

“You can still go to the clinic,” Akira prods gently. He already associated the words clinic and doctor with red flags. “It doesn’t close for another few hours.”

“That’s...” and the sigh that heaves out of him is defeated, but it is not a victory Akira can claim as his own. “...a waste of time. Believe me when I say it won’t help.”

A duo of kids – elementary school students – race by them, screeching about the rules of some game they’re in the midst of playing. They nearly collide with the mother and son duo that wait at the streetlight adjacent to Takemi’s clinic.

“Is there a reason you’re afraid to ask for help?”

Kitagawa scoffs, “It’s not ‘fear’, Kurusu.”

“Then what is it? _Pride_?” the returning impatience crawls into his voice. “Sojiro couldn’t find anything, but he’s not a doctor. Just because the car’s tiny doesn’t mean it’s incapable of hurting someone.”

His laugh is hollow. “I’m aware of that. It did sting quite a bit when you ran me over.”

 _Clearly not hard enough_.

The incessant barking reaches his ears before he sees the dog itself. Its leash trails behind it, and he can hear its owner calling from a way off. Small, a little larger than Morgana, its eyes are wide as it yaps with each footfall. The wagging tail, he hopes, is the only indication that it’s not frightened but curious.

Admittedly, Akira’s more of a cat person, and this is exactly why. He can’t imagine a dog living in Leblanc – Sojiro would freak.

“Here,” Akira holds out the bag to Kitagawa. “Just go back to Leblanc, and I’ll—”

He starts as Kitagawa drops everything and takes off down the road running in front of the clinic. The dog’s barking grows louder, and he’s not sure why, but something in him reaches for its collar, holding it in place. It gives a tug once, twice, and relief floods through him as the owner finally catches up.

“I’m so sorry,” the boy says, scraping at the leash. “Come on, let’s go! Sorry, mister, he usually doesn’t run off like that.”

The dog whines in protest but allows itself to be picked up.

“Don’t worry about it,” Akira says, gathering Kitagawa’s groceries ( _junk food_ , his mind corrects) before hurrying down the path.

Confusion and worry mix together in his stomach. First: What the hell just happened? A cat-sized dog scared away a man thrice its size. Okay, check. Second: Where did Kitagawa run off to? Passed Takemi’s, unsurprisingly, and... No check.

For as rude as he could be, Akira doesn’t want him getting hurt.

His internal clock screams at him to return to Leblanc with each slip of the sun and ask Sojiro for help. His fear protests no, because he can’t handle a Sojiro-lecture on top of Kitagawa’s disappearance. And how was he to explain what just happened when he barely comprehended what just happened?

Akira’s positive at least two to three minutes have dripped by before he catches the flash of Kitagawa’s white shirt and spots him in one of the many alleys he’s passed. He’s slumped against one of the walls of the buildings, hair framing his face as Kitagawa’s hands grasp his upper arms.

Tentative steps, something in him says. Be patient.

“Kitagawa?”

Silence.

Then, “Kurusu.”

It’s not a question. He doesn’t look at him, but then again, he hardly did whenever they spoke. Insulting? Of course. But Akira’s pride takes a backseat out of courtesy.

“Are you alright?”

“ _Back off_!” Kitagawa’s voice explodes out of him like a gunshot, and it’s as if they’ve traveled back to the night they first met. Cold eyes, scowling a threat that need not be spoken. “Just... stay where you are,” a pause. “Please.”

And stay he does. He turns his back on Kitagawa and waits for the explanation.

It doesn’t come.

...His fingers are starting to ache from the weight of the two bags in one hand. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I... apologize,” and the words ring hollow. “I’ve had bad experience with dogs.”

“Kitagawa.” Akira has to stop himself from rounding on him. He had enough common sense to respect his wishes. “That was... That was only a _quarter_ of a dog. Morgana could have kicked its ass if he wanted to.”

“Can you really blame me?”

“Yeah, barely made it out alive back there,” he retorts. “Thanks for ditching me.”

“Is that sarcasm?”

In that moment, Akira concludes one thing: Kitagawa was impossible.

He runs a hand through his hair, wills himself to calm down. “Sorry, I shouldn’t make fun of you,” Akira says, leaning against the face of the building. The bags are fine at his feet; no one was going to swipe them anyway. “Are you okay to return to Leblanc?”

There’s the sound of shifting as Kitagawa moves.

A beat of silence.

“Not yet,” he sighs. “I’m starting to feel a bit lightheaded again.”

His eyes slide down the road. They’ve traveled further along one of Yongen-Jaya’s veins, and he doesn’t recognize any of the dead neon signs hanging above the doors. “Wait here,” he says, pushing himself away from the wall. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“You wouldn’t like it if I told you.”

Kitagawa doesn’t protest.

And as Akira approaches the building with the heart stamped on its brick walls, he needs to formulate an excuse without dropping Kitagawa’s name. He’s not too familiar with Takemi, but he knows she has an eye for detail. The last time he visited her resulted in a prescription he didn’t ask for. Needless to say he recovered in three days’ time.

There’s the faint, stinging reek of antiseptic. It’s not as strong as hospital rooms. A clinic in run down Yongen-Jaya would never have the same number of tools and medicine stocking the shelves of a well-financed medical office. But despite low shipments, she managed quite well. Sojiro once chose Takemi’s clinic over the hospital in Shibuya’s belly. Coming from grumpy, “I-don’t-need-a-checkup!” Sojiro, it was quite the compliment whether she knew so or not.

Her desk is clear aside from the phone and a trinket or two – a cactus plant, a black mug that she often took with her to Leblanc. When Akira approaches, her attention is centered on a paper scribbled with complex phrases and characters.

  
_(It’s rude to read something that’s not yours)_

“Can I help you?”

Broken down: Kitagawa was ‘unwell’. Again. There was little to no chance she _knew_ him, so explaining the situation should be easy. Then there was the less truthful route that would no doubt raise an eyebrow...

He thinks of Kitagawa huddled in the alleyway, refusing to let Akira approach. Less truthful route it is. “I’ve been feeling lightheaded from stress,” the lie weaves itself half-heartedly. “My classes are preparing for exams, and I need something to help me focus.”

“I see,” she says slowly. “Although, it sounds as if you’re having a hard time balancing rest and school.”

Not a false guess. Though the ‘stress’ is more from worry for his friends and Kamoshida than it is assignments and tests. “Is there a medicine that helps with sleep?”

“Plenty,” Takemi sets aside the document. “Head into the exam room and we’ll go from there.”

He hesitates, and that’s the first thing he does wrong. “I can’t. It’s getting late and I still have my shift at Leblanc.”

And now she looks at him. “Really?” her words are sharpened by doubt. “You are aware this isn’t a drugstore. I’ve seen you before, so may I ask what’s changed? Is there a reason you’re in such a rush?”

  
_May I ask what the rush is?_

“I...” Akira shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just short on time today.” _And excuses_ , something in his mind jeers.

A beat of silence, and though the atmosphere has taken on an awkward edge, he can’t bring himself to leave. He recalls Sojiro returning from his checkup with an unlabeled pill bottle. At the time, Akira knew better than to pry, but now he wishes Takemi would extend that same courtesy. This may be the only way to give Kitagawa medical attention without threatening to drag him to a professional. He wouldn’t dare bite Akira’s hand, would he?

The wheels of her chair grumble against the floor. “Alright, you win. Stay there.”

He blinks as she opens the adjacent door, glimpsing the corner of a desk and the examination table dressed in white paper. Unsure of what to do, he takes the seat closest to the exit. He has half a mind to check his phone, thoughts of Ryuji and Shiho’s after school practice consuming any coherent thoughts.

Then there was the matter of Kitagawa.

From the slim, rectangular window of the front door, he sees the edges of orange light bleeding into the blue of the sky. A part of him wonders if Kitagawa would make a break for the train station now that he was unsupervised.

He hopes this isn’t the case.

“Take this,” between her index and thumb is a small white bag, the outline of a bottle pressed against the plastic.

Seeing it as an invitation, he moves forward, reaching for the medicine—

—and she pulls back, leaving his hand suspended to touch air. “Is this truly for you though?”

His head dips in a small nod despite the panic that begins to prod at his nerves.

A pause, and Akira realizes he could probably just snatch it from her anyway given the slight advantage he had with his height.

“I only ask because this is made specifically for you and the symptoms you described. If you intend on giving it to someone else... let’s just say it’s not something I recommend doing,” she presses the pack into his hands. “I won’t charge you now, but I’d appreciate you coming back a week from today when you start taking them. You know, just to be sure they’re working.”

He inwardly flinches. “Understood.”

“Take care then,” she says. “And tell your new co-worker I said ‘hi’.”

Oh.

“Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?”

Akira doesn’t need to be told twice, and he’s sure to put some distance between him and the clinic before pulling the medicine from the bag. A dark green pill bottle, white cap that had one of those safety instructions for kids (he’d get offended about that later), and a label with tiny black characters.

Takemedic: 50mg  
No more than 2 capsules every 6 hours.  
Side effects: tingling in hands, headache, impairment, unusual dreams...

Did Takemi Tae make her own medicine? This was certainly not a brand he’s heard before, and he ponders if he should _really_ be shoving this down Kitagawa’s throat. But he supposes he’ll find out soon enough when he returns to Kitagawa’s hiding spot from the furball menace.

“Catch,” he tosses the bag in the maw of the alley, hearing it bunch in Kitagawa’s grasp. “Don’t worry: I didn’t tell her about you. As far as she’s concerned, it’s for me.” Well. Sort of, but not really. She hadn’t seemed very convinced, but he’s not going to tell Kitagawa that.

He hears the tablets rattle in their plastic prison. “What do you want me to do with it?”

“Just hold them,” Akira sighs, too tired for Kitagawa’s 20 Questions as he picks up the two bags from earlier. “Let’s get back to Leblanc for now. You okay to walk?”

Shuffling, Kitagawa rises to his feet, stepping back into the evening sun. “Yes, I think so.”

The boy from earlier is gone as is the dog, but Akira keeps an eye out for any stray canines off their leash. He doesn’t need Kitagawa freaking out again. There’s still a handful of pressing questions that he means to ask, but settles for waiting when they’re back in the attic... and maybe when Sojiro left to go home. Akira’s willing to allow Kitagawa’s strange cynophobia to roll over for the night, but Sojiro may not share the same mindset.

By the time they walk back in Leblanc, there are far less customers – two, he counts, sitting before empty plates and cups. Sojiro almost looks surprised to see them.

“Here I thought you bought out the whole store, but you only have three bags,” he says. “You get lost or something?”

 _You’re hilarious_ , he wants to say.

“Did a bit of sight-seeing,” he says instead, making way for the stairs.

Sojiro raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware Yongen had anything worth seeing,” (Akira shrugs half-heartedly.) “I need to lock up early tonight, so help yourself to what’s left in the fridge. And what about you?” he addresses Kitagawa. “You get what you needed?”

“Quite,” he responds. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well... Thought it’d make up for earlier,” at Akira’s frown, Sojiro blinks. “What, you didn’t tell him?”

The customers clamber out of their seats, leave behind their pay, and thank Sojiro for the meal. “I forgot,” he says, glancing at Akira, who, desperate for a distraction, he gathers up the dishes. “Sakura-san was generous enough to buy the sketchpad you saw earlier.”

Akira can’t fight back the smirk. “The one you tore apart?”

“You tore it apart?” Sojiro echoes.

“I’m making the utmost use of your gift,” Kitagawa assures, ascending the stairs. “When I finish, I will be sure to notify you.”

 _‘It’s not your_ _room._ ’ Akira thinks, but it’s more out of resignation than outright ire.

“Quite the handful...”

“You don’t know the half of it,” he says, slumping down in one of the seats. He wants to discuss Kitagawa’s bizarre mannerisms, the episode with the dog, but doing so would open more questions. “Did he try to leave earlier?”

Sojiro nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not in the way you’re thinking. May not seem like it, but I think he’s warming up to the place.”

Akira can only hum in agreement. He still had the two bags to worry about.

“Go turn in for the night,” Sojiro says. “I’ll clean up just this once.”

And he does, and he’s not even halfway up the stairs when he hears Kitagawa rummaging around his room. Morgana’s meows are persistent. It’s not surprising to see the plastic bag among the litter of sketches. He doesn’t bother plucking it from the ground, instead crossing the room to his bed and dropping the remaining ‘groceries’ on the desk.

He has a handful of assignments due within the next two days but hanging out with Kitagawa has drained whatever energy he hoped to save. Knowing he’ll scold himself for it later, he throws himself on the bed.

The _crunching_ noise is followed immediately by the uncomfortable pressure against his upper back.

Akira shoots up in bed, peeling back the blanket.

Sticks and leaves with a few particles of dirt sit on the sheets innocently.

What in the fresh hell.

He looks to Kitagawa who’s currently lining the desk with 2000 yen worth of junk food. Closer inspection reveals a small, growing stack of papers – the drawings, no doubt. He’s beginning to see bits of the floor now that Kitagawa’s cleaning up after himself. Akira brushes them aside, hearing them clatter loudly against the wooden floorboards.

“Hey,” Akira scrapes up a few papers, holding them out. “Did you go outside earlier?”

Kitagawa frowns. “No.”

“Then where did these—” here, he points to the mess. “—come from? And why were they in my bed?”

Morgana meows and brushes up against Akira’s legs, observing Kitagawa with sharp eyes. “That’s from...” once again, his eyes are unreadable. He folds his arms, and for a second, he almost looks vulnerable. “I had meant to draw them earlier and needed a plain background. I’ll clean up afterwards from now on.”

“You plan on doing it again?”

“I make no promises.”

Too tired to risk breaching another argument, he gathers up his clothes from where he left them that morning. Finding bits of mother nature’s offspring in his bed had been the cherry on top to such an eventful day.

Hm.

It would be awkward to change with Kitagawa right there.

Maybe he’d raid the fridge while he was downstairs.

\--

It’s hot.

Her legs are pumped with lead, palm stinging from when she last served, and the gym is quiet. Suzui Shiho kicks at one of the volleyballs, swiping at her forehead with the back of her hand. She wills herself not to look at the clock hanging on the other wall. As far as she’s concerned, she’s barely scraped in seven minutes.

She’s not quite sure _what_ to do aside from serves. It was hard to practice volleyball when she was the only one held after school.

If Ann were here...

Her palm strikes the side of the ball and it trips over the lip of the net.

No. She shouldn’t be selfish. This wasn’t the first time she was held after, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Especially with Kamoshida as Shujin’s coach.

“Suzui-san?”

She starts, whirls around.

Mishima Yuuki approaches with downcast eyes, expression a mirror to his emotions. “I was...” he pauses, noticing the volleyball sandwiched between her palms. “...told to come and get you. By Kamoshida.”

Her heart stutters in her chest.

“Sorry.”

She can’t bring herself to say anything.

The lead in her limbs has spread throughout her body, and it’s suddenly very hard to move.

How she manages to bring herself to his office, she’s not sure. She’s cornered, separated from Kamoshida by a simple wooden door. If he wanted to, he could break it down and get her right then and there. There would be no one to shield her from harm, the camera hanging at the corner would watch passively, record its video much like teenagers recorded the fights that broke out among one another.

Knuckle raised, she knocks twice.

“Come in,” his voice is the very ice that freezes her veins.

She keeps her eyes trained on the room. Two desks, laptops, a few trophies and medals lined on Kamoshida’s shelf. In the eyes of the faculty staff, he was as untouchable and polished as his own rewards. “You needed to speak with me, sensei?” she says quietly.

“Ah, Suzui-san,” he grins, teeth like shards of glass. Everything in her tells her to get away. “I’ve noticed your condition has dropped in recent practices.”

The bruise on her lower limb throbs.

“Something bothering you? My door is always open, you know.”

A shake of the head. “I’m okay, sensei. I’m just tired.”

Kamoshida leans back in his seat, expression twisted in mock concern. “That’s unfortunate, but I’m not surprised. You’re a very serious student, Suzui-san, not like those other girls.”

Mouth dry, her feet feel shackled to the floor. She slides her eyes to the trophies that watch in anticipation. Words evade her.

“You see,” the word hands dangerously, like a dagger pressed against her jugular. “While I admire your dedication, I can’t keep you as a regular on the team.”

“What?”

Dedication to studies didn’t mean anything if she couldn’t keep up the marks. Somehow, through her stumble along freshman year, she found a calling of sorts through volleyball. It was the only thing she had.

For this chance to be swept away all because of fatigue

(because of Kamoshida)

and injuries... It was too cruel to be true.

“Although, I may be willing to let things slide, just because it’s you, Suizui-san.”

Her back presses against the door, hand groping for the handle.

But Kamoshida is faster.

She flinches as he smacks his palm in the space next to her ear. Her stomach wrings itself out again and again, sloshing around acid and jumbled emotions ( _panic_!!) alike. She’s not sure how she manages to stay standing, but she does, on trembling legs and numb feet. Her arms are held close to her chest, a weak barrier, she comes to realize.

Something lodges in her throat. “Sensei, what are you...?”

“Come on, Suzui,” his grip is iron, and she can feel the bruises _blossom_ under his touch. “Don’t you want a chance to redeem yourself?”

Shiho wishes the door would open and swallow her, take her someplace safe, away from Kamoshida’s perverted gaze. “No- _No-!!_ ”

Her head snaps to the side, the stinging in her cheek is enough for the tears to spring to her eyes. The very hand he used to strike her finds purchase on her shirt.

“Shut your fucking mouth, bitch!” he hisses. “I’m not asking for your consent.”

She feels her teeth dig in her lower lip and she clenches her eyes shut, so tight that she feels each individual eyelash press against her lower lids. Her mind screams out to the higherup that cruelly looks the other way. Compared to an Olympic medalist, her strength is nothing.

‘ _Ann, please_ help—’

\--

Sakamoto Ryuji is exactly 20 yen short of a bottle of water. The smart thing to do is scrape for coins beneath the vending machine. But for once, he can’t even bring himself to kneel, less get down on hands and knees. His hand braces against the surface, face and neck wet with perspiration, clothes sticking uncomfortably to his skin.

A mile run with no water, and not enough money in his pocket.

Pissed off didn’t begin to describe how he felt.

He hadn’t expected to be held after hours, but with Kamoshida, it had been stupid of him not to bring water anyway. There was always the risk of an unwarranted detention.

His track mates left without so much of a word, just as bitter as he was, so there was no asking them for spare change.

Collapsing from pure exhaustion doesn’t sound so impossible now.

Ryuji’s ready to return home, chances of getting water before boarding the train near impossible. He’s only a few feet away when he spots a familiar face.

“Suzui!” he calls, jogging over to her. She flinches as if slapped, eyes wide, and he instantly feels guilt well up in him. Backpedaling, he reaches out to her cautiously. “Hey, hey! It’s okay, it’s just me: Sakamoto! Didn’t mean to scare you or anything...”

He lets his words trail off, standing back to _really_ look at her.

A few strands of black hair are loose from her ponytail, posture stiff and yet she seems so _small_ , as if guarding herself from something.

(or someone.)

“You had afterschool practice too, didn’t ya?” he presses. “Was it because of Kamoshida?”

“D-Don’t—” she gasps sharply, pushes away from him harshly. “Don’t say his name!” He stumbles back from the force of her shove, and perhaps the shock shows on his face because Suzui looks just as surprised. “I... I’m so sorry, Sakamoto-kun, I didn’t mean...”

“You ain’t gotta apologize,” he says carefully.

Caution, this whole ‘thinking before speaking’ – it wasn’t normal of him to do so. Life was too short. If he had to say something, then he was going to say. Screw the people who looked at him funny. But Suzui is not one of these people nor is she a friend, but Suzui was understanding and empathetic. And as such, he’s both willing and reluctant to not pry into her matters.

But when he sees it, and he’s not sure _how_ he could have overlooked, his vision goes as red as the blooming bruise on Suzui’s cheek. “Where’d that come from?” he doesn’t need an answer, and his hands tighten into fists, nails biting his palms. He notices the way she turns her head, as if she could keep it hidden from his gaze. “What the hell, did he hit you?! God damn bastard—”

“Sakamoto, please stop. It’s not worth getting in trouble,” Suzui protests weakly, hand dropping from her face.

It does little to quell his anger. “I don’t care! A teacher’s not supposed to hit his students, and if no one says something, then he’s gonna think it’s okay!” his feet begin to carry him to the stairs. “I’m not gonna sit around and do nothing!”

And her hand snags his wrist. He feels the pressure of each finger, and it’s the shock from such a direct action that stills his feet. “Please, I’m asking you not do something you’ll regret. I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.”

It wasn’t just Suzui. It was his teammates, the volleyball team, and the other members of the sports division. But he can’t tell her this. “I won’t,” he counters. “I know what to do.”

“Don’t,” Suzui releases his wrist. “You... were afterschool too, right? You’re probably exhausted, so don’t push yourself anymore today,” she begins to back away from him. “Be careful, Sakamoto-kun.” and with that, she maneuvers around him hurrying down the street to the station.

“Wait—!”

The fact is: he can catch up to Suzui as her jog breaks into a run if he wanted to. If he could. He’s praised by senpais and kouhais alike for keeping top records, but now his feet are rooted to the spot. In that moment, being the ace of the high school’s track team means nothing.

Suspicious injuries and rumors of a “special” training was the only evidence that filled his pockets. But he couldn’t bring himself to be ‘okay’ with sitting on his hands. And would taking such a risk, to go against a teacher, really help his teammates and the rest of the school?

Suzui’s retreating back alludes to the only answer.

He hopes, once he busts Kamoshida, that he never has to see that look in her eyes again.

\--

 **RYUJI.** that bastard.

 **RYUJI.** he did something to her.

 **AKIRA.** What’s wrong?

 **AKIRA.** Ryuji, what happened?

 **RYUJI.** i saw suzui after school. she was actin’ really strange and she freaked when i said ‘kamoshida’.

 **RYUJI.** hes gonna pay.

 **AKIRA.** Calm down. Don’t do anything reckless.

 **RYUJI.** you can’t expect me to just do nothing. doesn’t this piss you off too?

 **AKIRA.** Of course it does. But there’s no chance of them listening if you don’t have evidence.

 **RYUJI.** i know dammit tthis ‘effin sucks

 **RYUJI.** i’m gonna ask around the volleyball team bout the abuse. could you lend a hand? i could use some help.

 **AKIRA.** I’ll be there.

 **RYUJI.** thanks man!

Morgana watches him with observant eyes, and he reaches over to scratch behind his ears. Would it be strange for him to ramble to Morgana? His eyes slide to Kitagawa who’s taken to the futon that night. Curled up underneath a slim blanket, Akira wouldn’t have associated him with such a snarky attitude. He decides Kitagawa was rather pleasant when he kept his mouth shut.

He snorts. If only.

As Morgana curls by his elbow, he lets his eyes slide shut. He recalls a few students that are on the volleyball team. One Mishima Yuuki and one Suzui Shiho are the first to come to mind. But he’s not sure if he should confront Suzui after Ryuji’s report. If his suspicions are true, then talking to her would only do more harm than good.

Akira wants to help, not do more damage.

“Dealing with unruly thoughts?”

Kitagawa’s voice pierces the tires of his train of thought. “Yeah.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

Akira sighs, turning to look at him. “It’s nothing. I can only do what I can.”

“That’s rather vague,” Kitagawa deadpans. “But if you don’t wish to discuss, then I won’t pry into your matters.” And with that, he shifts, turning his back on Akira.

Well, that took a lot of convincing.

“Hey,” he eventually says. “how’re you feeling?”

“Tired.”

Akira huffs. It was never easy with Kitagawa. “Ready to go back to Kosei yet?”

“I have been,” a pause. “But what I want and what’s best don’t always coincide with one another. It may be best to stay here one more night. I have to speak with my teachers for my absence.”

“We have a pay phone downstairs, or you could use mine.”

The blanket shifts as Kitagawa shrugs. “I appreciate the offer, but this isn’t the first time I’ve missed classes. Don’t worry yourself over it.”

Morgana’s sudden meow clips through the quiet of the night.

“Your cat is very loud,” Kitagawa fixes Morgana with a frown. “Has he always been this demanding?”

Akira thinks for a moment. Loud was an understatement; he’s never had a cat who meowed as much as Morgana. “I couldn’t tell you,” he admits. “He was a stray.”

The frown falters at Akira’s words. “I see... That’s unfortunate.”

“Sojiro wasn’t happy about it at first,” he continues. “But I think he sympathized with him. Go figure.”

They sit in silence, unsure of what to say. Kitagawa was difficult to talk to. Aside from his odd manner of speaking, fascination for arts, and that he was a Kosei student, there wasn’t much Akira knew about him. It was as if he was sharing his room with a stranger. But he couldn’t completely fault Kitagawa.

It was Akira’s fault after all.

Had the situation been reversed, he doesn’t doubt he’d harbor some resentment as well.

“What were you doing in Yongen?”

Kitagawa hesitates, or Akira _thinks_ he hesitates. He must not be completely new to Yongen if he was strolling the streets before Akira nearly steamrolled him. “I was looking for a subject.”

Akira frowns. “A subject?” he echoes.

“Yes. One of my class assignments ask that I draw something outside of Kosei grounds. I suppose the tree in our courtyard is the ideal model for many students. I came to Yongen since it was a fair distance away from my school, but not too expensive either.”

“Was that why you were so interested in the theater?”

“Somewhat. It doesn’t quite have what I want.”

Akira runs a hand through his hair. Aside from buildings and concrete, there wasn’t much wildlife in the area. That is, if Kitagawa _wanted_ to draw something related to nature. “What’re you looking for specifically? I may be able to help.”

“My topic is ‘peace’ and ‘balance’,” and he reaches for the smaller stack of drawings at the edge of the desk. In the blackness of the room, Akira’s not sure if he can see the sketches as he shifts through the pages, but he says nothing. “I haven’t found anything that feels ‘balanced’ since I’ve arrived. Though Leblanc is quite peaceful, I don’t know if it would be a suitable topic.”

“I’m sure if you drew Leblanc, Sojiro would appreciate it. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he doesn’t get that much customers.”

A quizzical look crosses Kitagawa’s face. “Is that so? I would think the opposite. Sakura-san has treated me with nothing but kindness.”

“Well, he can be a little moody...” Akira checks the time on his phone. Less than five minutes to midnight, and he needed to rest if he was going to be interrogating the next day. “I have school tomorrow. Are you okay staying here one more night?”

Kitagawa makes a noise in the back of his throat. “We’ll see.”

As expected.

“If you need anything, Sojiro will be downstairs. Maybe you could help him out a little.”

There’s no response.

Rolling over, Akira urges himself to sleep. With the weight of Kamoshida, Ryuji’s texts, and tomorrow’s impending events, it doesn’t take long for sleep to overtake him. The last thing he hears is Morgana’s purring against his ear.

\--

He makes sure to clamp a hand over the bell as he pulls the door open.

The night air is frigid, a cold touch compared to the heated strokes of daytime.

Yusuke stands at the cusp of freedom and confinement. Though his time at Leblanc has been nothing short of unpleasant, it was not his place to stay. He did have a home – miles away, but it was a roof over his head that was coming out of his own pocket, fueled by good grades and punctuality.

Lightheadedness and the aching in his ribs have all but subsided. A fast healer, though he’s not sure how that came to be given his limited diet. He supposes it was a stroke of dumb luck, one of the few good cards he drew before being tossed into the hell that was life.

Yongen is a different world when the moon is in the sky and the sun sleeps. Balance and peace would be easy to find now than it would later. As it is, he has no key, and if Kurusu were to wake up...

He backs into the warmth of the café, door clicking shut.

One more day. Surely no one would notice yet, right?

Kurusu is fast asleep, the cat curled on his chest. Despite the animosity he held towards it, Yusuke can’t deny Morgana loved him. It was nice to see that beneath the loud mouth and rude meowing Morgana did care for something.

The drawings on the work desk remain untouched, having placed them back once Kurusu ended their conversation. It is the one time where he doesn’t want to think about art. Yusuke draws the blanket up, wanting to focus on sleep.

He’s wasted too much time; that had to change tomorrow.

There was no room for failure.


	4. Chapter 4

Ryuji’s attempt to rally the track team was beginning to backfire faster than the ticking of a stopwatch. He finds himself waiting outside 2-D with zero messages in his inbox.

(“ _You didn’t get water yesterday, either?” he had said._

_“Drop it, Sakamoto. Kamoshida’s just a difficult teacher. What more can you expect from someone from the Olympics_?”, “ _I don’t like it either, but he’s trying to help us_.”, “ _The track team is fine. Don’t fuck it up for us just because the other teams are struggling._ ”, “ _I... I don’t know. I’ll see you at practice, Sakamoto-senpai.”)_

He catches Takamaki’s eyes as she slips into the classroom. There’s an urge there, to reach out the instant he sees the downcast expression. Since graduating middle school, they’ve become strangers. A part of him misses the friendly banter he’d juggle with her and Suzui. The other part reminds him that he _knew_ he was going to lose someone if he pursued the track team. And track was something he enjoyed; it gave him a place to feel free, to belong.

To see it crumble before his very eyes because of their coach was unforgivable.

His last message to Akira is marked “read”, but there’s still no response.

( **RYUJI.** I’ve already talked with a few of the track team. Any chance you could tackle volleyball?)

Somewhere in the archives of his phone is Suzui’s number. The digits had remained unchanged since 8th grade. His finger hovers over the ‘message’ icon. Would she even respond? Hell, did she still _use_ this number?

“Watanabe Ichiro, third year—”

“—W-What the _shit_ , man—!”

“—has bruises along his arms and face, but refuses to spill,” Akira carries on. “There are two students in homeroom that are on the team, so I can ask when class starts. Any luck on your end?”

His stuttering heart is chilled with a heavy sigh, disappointment freezing over the initial shock of Akira’s arrival. “What do you think?” he stuffs his phone away carelessly. “They’re pretty serious about defending him. Just yesterday, Kamoshida wouldn’t give any of us water.”

“What?”

“Yeah, bunch of bullshit. For all they care, he’s helping us ‘further our careers’, a ‘little hurt for a bigger reward’. It’s a shitty thing that coaches do to push their students.”

“I’d hardly call that ‘little’,” Akira utters, pushing at his glasses.

Ryuji scoffs, scuffling his shoe against the tile. “Well, looks like I got up early for nothing. I’ll try again during our afternoon break.”

“Try what, Sakamoto?”

It’s the second time that morning Ryuji’s heart leaps into his throat. Takamaki stands by the door, eyes hard and lips tight. He has no reason to hide the truth from her. He’s seen the way Kamoshida looked at her and Suzui. The more allies they had, the better. “I got dirt on Kamoshida yesterday,” he responds, voice lowering as if imparting a secret. “His abuse has been going on for too long, but we have a chance this time.”

He expects Takamaki to jump at the call, to join in on their conversation. But all it takes is a roll of her eyes and Ryuji knows this isn’t going to go in the direction he wants. “Quit acting as if you can make a difference,

(Ouch.)

“You’re just wasting your time and everyone else’s,” and at this, she turns to Akira. “You too, Kurusu. I didn’t expect you to go along with one of Sakamoto’s brilliant ideas.”

“Hey, leave him out of this,” Ryuji bristles. “At least he’s doing something. You’re seriously okay with Kamoshida harassin’ students?”

Takamaki scowls. “Of course I’m not! Don’t you think I’ve tried? Nobody here cares.”

Suzui’s defeated expression flits through his mind. The scrapes and bruises that can be from anything _but_ practice flash in time with increasing frustration. She’s right, and he hated it. “And what about Suzui?”

Somehow, _somehow_ , he manages to find the chink in her armor. Takamaki’s frown glitches at the mention of her friend.

He doesn’t stop. “Kamoshida did something to her. I know what I saw and—”

“Enough already!” her voice lashes at him, cutting through his words like paper. “Do what you want, but just leave Shiho out of it.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Akira lift his head. “Are you okay with that?”

She blinks, incredulity crinkling her face. “With what? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ryuji doesn’t mean to cut off Akira, but the exaggerated swing of his arms as he throws them up in exasperation successfully quells the argument. This back and forth tennis match is getting them nowhere; he could have confronted at least 3 people by this point.

“Whatever. When you’re done pretendin’ everything’s fine and dandy, let us know,” he quips, ripping his gaze from her to Akira. “Text me if you hear something interesting, yeah?”

For once, he’s glad he’ll be in class early. He’d need the time to cool down if he was going to talk to someone else – track or volleyball team, it didn’t matter. As long as he got answers.

\--

Earlier, Ann had received a text and thought nothing of it.

\--

**SHIHO.** Hi Ann.

**SHIHO.** Could we have lunch together? There’s something I want to talk about.

**ANN.** you don’t have to ask. is everything ok?

**SHIHO.** I... It might be better if we’re face-to-face.

**ANN.** Oh, ok. we can do that too.

\--

Except now she’s so frustrated with both Sakamoto and Kurusu she can’t even _think_. She had stormed into the classroom, half-tempted to slide the door shut behind her

(let Kurusu open it, a petty side to her jeered)

and took her seat. Headphones would have been a luxury that morning. For once, she finds herself unable to block out the rumors that fly around the room like pesky flies over food left on a countertop. They were always the same thing anyway: Takamaki and Kamoshida this, Takamaki and Kamoshida that...

Her mind flits back to the night before, the phone call at Rafflesia, and she can only stare out the window, glare at the gray clouds as if they are to blame.

‘ _Fine and dandy, huh?_ ’ her fingers tighten against the surface of her desk, minor discomfort surging through her nails and along her fingers. ‘ _Asshole..._ ’

She tries to ignore Kurusu talking with one of their classmates – Mishima Yuuki, her mind corrects – but it is so much harder to do than she thought.

Kawakami’s tired presence somehow halts the conversations carried on the currents of teenage immaturity. She has Mishima on roll call, and class begins. It is yet another drone of a lesson from the day before. And though she knows the material, though she’s done this dance a million times, she scribbles in her notebook anyway.

What the hell did Sakamoto know? He should have known she tried. He _knows_ her, knows that she wouldn’t stand for getting mistreated by that disgusting pig disguised as a gym teacher. And to bring in Shiho like that...

She checks her phone as Kawakami turns to write on the blackboard. Shiho has not responded, but she has read the message. Right. Okay, so that meant they were still on for lunch.

Between Shiho’s texts and Sakamoto’s words, her emotions are a spring ready to jump the minute her finger slips on the metal. But she knows better than to break down in the middle of class. She hasn’t screamed and sobbed during a lecture since elementary school, upset at something only little kids would get upset about. And she certainly hasn’t forgotten the cruel torment she received as a result of it. A stern look from the teacher and kids practicing the annoying art of giggling at someone else’s expense. It wasn’t worth a repeat – especially in high school.

Only this time they would take the meaning and twist it to something befitting their silly stories, make it sound as if she was crying over a breakup text from Kamoshida. Everything was about reactions after all.

She swallows the bile in her throat, scribbling the characters into her notes even though she’s not sure what she’s writing anymore at this point.

Later she would look at these notes and question just what the hell she was writing.

\--

There’s a half-written message sprawling across the little white bubble of the text box. She types something, erases it, types again, then deletes the entire message.

Why did it matter?

She had 4-5 hours until everyone was free of the lecture. It was a long time, but it was too short.

A door.

It’s amusing how a _door_ of all things separated her from freedom and torment – and not for the first time. She hates them. She could never tell what was beyond, and by the time she twists the knob, rarely did she have a chance to turn around and go back.

But this time, she does.

She can walk through to freedom,

( _peace and agony_ )

She could turn back to torment.

Yesterday evening, she could only go through.

And that torment had led to something that she wished she didn’t survive. She wishes she could take all the cruelties of the world with her, drag them to whatever plane of existence fate intended on throwing her in.

There’s a peal of laughter that desires release. Her teeth dig into her tongue, a flash of coppery tang bursting in her mouth. Trembling, she’s trembling, and it’s really all so funny. Everything is so fucking hilarious.

( _don’t swear. it’s unbecoming of a lady_ )

For once, she can choose.

She has a choice, she has a choice, she has a choice...

And it didn’t have to be the “right one”; she has the chance to be selfish.

The only thing keeping her away from it was a door with a sign reading **OFF LIMITS, NO STUDENTS**.

And yet there _are_ students who loiter around the rooftop. Those types of flowers and vegetables did not grow from mother nature’s caress alone. They were raised and pampered by a careful hand, an attention to detail.

With love, she realizes.

Disgusting.

Love could keep greenery alive, plants that would die the instant the harsh winds of winter brushed their leaves, sending ice down to their roots. And yet they received more love combined than she had ever received the instant she took that first step into middle school.

Her parents were supposed to love her.

It isn’t until she toes the edge does she realize everything hurts. There’s a wave of vertigo tapping at the inside of her head. Her legs are as sore as her torso. She’s shaking, and she’s not sure if it’s from the pain or from the last-minute fear that plays with her consciousness, taunts common sense.

_Step away, step away, step away—_

There’s a clap as she carelessly deposits her shoes behind her.

The image of the school blurs, twisting and turning until they are nothing but smudged paint on a palette. Eyes would soon be on her, and maybe they already were. Maybe the distorted images were not a figment of her imagination.

And though she desires escape, the small part of her that hissed songs of revenge the night before hopes he watches. It’s a shame she won’t be able to see the shock. But if it would implant the feeling of helplessness in him, she doesn’t care.

It’s a shame. She never got to apologize to the one person that mattered.

The ground rushes up to meet her and Suzui Shiho knows no more.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s an understatement that Takamaki is angry with him.

He can’t bring himself to blame her.

Ushimaru-sensei is difficult to block out as he speaks loud enough for the neighboring room to hear the lesson. He has little sympathy for the students that answer the question incorrectly. He’s also the teacher that enjoys using erasers and pieces of chalk as projectiles. Ten points if he can hit the kid snoozing in the back. Twenty points if he can hit Akira while he’s gazing out the window.

There must be some sexist favoritism because he’s never seen him launch an eraser at a female before.

“...And so there will be the track meet in two weeks. Just because we have an event going on, don’t expect to shirk your work. That especially goes for you on the team. Nobody’s exempted from—”

“Hey! Look over there!”

And Akira does, leaning back from his desk and rising from his seat for a better view.

“Is that Suzui-san from the volleyball team—”

“—Wait, is she seriously gonna—”

“—She’s insane!”

Takamaki crosses the classroom, hurrying after the rush of students that pack themselves together at the outside window. Akira can’t find a space to squeeze in, but he can see the view just fine from where he stands.

Suzui does not meet their eyes. She is seeing only something she can see.

“What are you doing?!” Ushimaru’s voice blares over the chaos of students. “Get back to your seats _now_!”

“Shiho-!!” the name is a harsh intake of breath as Takamaki clasps her hands over her mouth.

He can only watch, suspense and panic alike slipping through his veins.

His heart plummets as Suzui steps on air.

The students burst into a chorus of screams, Takamaki bumps into him as she races by, and Akira chases after her. It would be a miracle to survive such a fall. Amid worry and, his mind slips back to Ryuji’s words from earlier. He can’t concentrate, but the overarching suspicion is strong enough to override the jumble of thoughts chasing around one another.

He knows what happened.

And deep down, he knows Takamaki feels the same.

There’s already a crowd of students – first years and third years alike – gathered around the courtyard. And above the cacophony of noise, the sirens of the ambulance screams. They stand aside as the paramedics hoist her onto the cot, close, but not close enough to Suzui’s broken body, glassy eyes staring at the gray clouds the suffocate the blue of the sky. What a sorry state of affairs.

He feels his stomach twist as some of the students whip out their phones, recording _videos_ even though there’s a student possibly laying on the cusp of death.

It was true: Nobody cared.

Not even the students.

The only force that could rally together and make a difference, and yet they choose to look away.

One of the paramedics face the crowds of students. “We need someone to go with her! Are there any teachers around?”

(“ _I would, but I’m not her homeroom teacher...”_

  
_“Where are they?”)_

“I can. I’ll go!” Takamaki is crouched by Suzui’s side before Akira can so much as blink. “Shiho! W-Why...?”

“Ren!” Ryuji voice clips against his ears. “Holy shit...”

He watches as Takamaki weakly grasps Suzui’s hand. It’s hard to hear what’s being said over the noise, but he can see her lips moving, the way her face crumbles as Suzui fails to respond. The paramedics are more focused on their own tasks to notice Takamaki.

Something rushes in the opposite direction. He manages to catch a glimpse of a familiar shock of blue hair. Mishima Yuuki’s hurried steps are anything but innocent. Perhaps he stares too long because Ryuji’s giving his arm a nudge.

“What is it?”

“Mishima,” he says. “I think he knows something.”

Realization lines his words, “He’s from the volleyball team. Yeah... Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go after him.”

His head dips in a nod; he doesn’t need to be told. But he’s only made a few steps when Ryuji stops. He frowns. “What’s wrong?”

Ryuji looks at him, looks at something (some _one_ ) in the crowd. “Someone from the track team’s going with Kamoshida. I’ll go after him; you find Mishima!”

A protest rises in his throat, but as Mishima edges further and further out of his line of sight, he only finds himself nodding, turning to push his way through the crowd and head for the practice building. White turtleneck, dark hair... It’s not difficult to find him as he weaves through the students that adorn the black vests and plaid bottoms of the school uniform.

The sight of Ryuji retreating in the opposite direction lances through his mind. Kamoshida brining a team member to God knows began to fill him with worry. Try as he might, Akira couldn’t shake the trepidation. He knows better than to wear his worry on his sleeve, have it spill into his voice whenever he spoke or line his body with every step.

So, when he sees Mishima huddled at the base of the lockers, he swallows past the shards of nerves that prick his throat. Ryuji trusted him to do his part; Akira could do the same for him.

Ryuji wouldn’t be broken so easily.

“Mishima.”

Astonishment lights his face. “Kurusu-kun?!” he scrambles to his feet only to fall against the bench, fingers tightening against the edge of the wood. “W-What do you want? I told you I don’t know anything!”

Akira keeps a grip on the accusations. Upsetting Mishima is the last thing he wants to do. A quick glance at the bruises that peak out from tugged sleeves, and it’s a sharp reminder that Mishima is as much as a victim as the rest of them. He shouldn’t have to cower from anyone who approached. It wasn’t fair, nor was it fair to throw unfiltered words in his face.

“You and Suzui-san are on the volleyball team,” he starts slowly.

“Yeah, I told you that already,” Mishima mumbles, grinding the sole of his shoe against the tiled floor. He can barely hear him over the tangled voices. “What are you getting at?”

“Relax, I’m on your side,” Akira feels as if he’s approaching a wounded animal. A swift movement, an accidental lift of the hand, and it would scamper off. He does no doubt Mishima would flee out of frustration if given the chance.

The stiffness in Mishima’s shoulders does not evaporate into the already-tense air. “I... I know. I know that. You’re the only one who talked to me about practice, but—”

“We didn’t finish that conversation.” (Mishima averts his gaze, frowning.) “If you don’t want to give me the details, that’s fine; I have no intention of pressuring you. But I do need to ask you something, and I need to know now.”

A pause. In his mind’s eye, he sees Mishima flinging himself to his feet, scampering in the other direction and burying himself in the crowd of frazzled students.

The real Mishima does not do this.

“Alright. Fine,” he sighs, and it’s so defeated that he feels bad. “What is it?”

Akira cycles through the question at least three times, trimming away the unevenness, the tone of voice that would cause Mishima to withdraw further. Version one and two are too aggressive, but three: “Did you speak with Suzui-san today?”

Something in his expression flickers before crumbling into wrenching _guilt._ He twists away from Akira the second time.

There’s a beat of silence that nearly smothers him. He’s close, but not close enough.

And he didn’t have time.

“You know something...”

Ryuji could rely on him. He wasn’t going to put an abundance of faith in Akira only for him to leave it at the shore.

Right. He shouldn’t be here.

He feels Mishima’s hand around his wrist before he can fully stand.

“I spoke to her yesterday,” the words are clipped and panicked. “Kamoshida, h-he wouldn’t let me leave until I found Suzui-san. I, I wanted to be sure she got there, waited for him to give me the ‘okay’. And then I left.” his head dips in a deep bow, forehead pressed against Akira’s forearm. “He didn’t tell me _why_ he wanted to see her, but he... He gets really scary when he doesn’t get what he wants, and I couldn’t take it anymore! I had to get out of there! I know, alright?! I know I should have stayed!”

Akira swallows and let’s Mishima’s words swing in and out of his ears. It’s evidence, the logical side of him says, but it’s not enough.

He pushes at Mishima’s shoulder gently. “Mishima, this isn’t something I can blame you for. But you need to let me go—”

“T-Take me with you!” he says. “I saw you with Sakamoto-kun earlier. Whatever you’re planning on doing... I can make up for it. Let me make it up to Suzui-san.”

“I...”

“I’m going,” Mishima releases him, stands so he can look down at Akira. Or rather he looks at a particular spot on the floor. “So please, let’s find Sakamoto-kun together.”

He wasn’t going to leave. It was another weight around his neck, but he can feel the worry and self-hate rolling off Mishima in waves. Akira didn’t have much of a choice. Even if he didn’t want Mishima getting more involved than he already was.

“I sometimes hear the track team talking about Sakamoto-kun. They... They don’t like his animosity towards Kamoshida. They keep saying stuff like how he’s going to blow it for them,” he says as they weave through the crowd and towards the stairs. “The volleyball team is the same. Nobody says anything, and they look down on those that try.”

Akira doesn’t need elaboration, but he knows each uttered word from Mishima is all fueled by panic. He only listens.

“I guess I was no better than them...” the crowd of people a few feet ahead still his rambling. “We can still get to Kamoshida’s office. We’ll just take the bridge.”

He nods, allows Mishima to navigate them through this jungle of panic.

The worry from earlier only beats in time with his palpitating heart.

\--

He hears the voices before he sees them.

“Dammit, what a headache... Can’t believe she jumped.”

“Sensei, you’re scaring me. W-What does Suzui-san have to do with me?”

“You need me to spell it out?” there’s the sound of a chair on wheels slamming against the back of a desk or wall or... something. “That bitch left tracks that I can’t get rid of by myself. If you want that letter of recommendation, then you’re gonna have to work for it.”

A pause.

“Or, if you really think your future isn’t that important, I could always file a report to Kobayakawa about how you failed to show up for practice for the past week and a half. I won’t forget to mention your declining grades either.”

“But... that’s not fair!”

“You got a lot of learning if you think this is the worst of it. That’s life. You may be the second fastest on the track team, but you can’t outrun this problem like you do all your others. So either help me or say goodbye to your education.”

Ryuji kicks at the space by the handle, door swining wildly and screaming as it hits the wall. He can’t suppress the trickle of satisfaction at Kamoshida’s startled face.

“Sakamoto?” Kamoshida’s face dissolves into fury, and he can see a glint of his teeth from the scowl that tears at his mouth. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He levels him with the same animosity. “Shut it! I heard _every_ word,” he doesn’t look at his teammate. Not yet. “So Suzui’s just a headache to you, huh? And now you’re gonna blackmail just to cover your sorry ass?”

“I thought you knew better than to talk to your superior that way.”

“You may be our coach, but you’re no better than shit!” he takes a step forward. _Calm down_ , a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Akira begs against another oncoming wave of frustration. “I know you did something to her, and I have evidence!”

Kamoshida’s mask falters. “Throwing around accusations... Maybe you’re trying to cover your own ass because you kept bullying Suzui-san.”

Ryuji’s head lurches back. “The hell are you saying?”

“Suzui-san tried to kill herself because she continued to get harassed by the track team’s star runner,” Kamoshida continues nonchalantly, turning to Ryuji’s track mate. And the links in his head begin to click together when he _really_ looks at him. Watanabe Ichiro. The third year Akira talked to earlier that morning. “How’s that for a story?”

Watanabe is stunned into silence.

“You really want a recommendation letter from this guy?” Ryuji quips.

A lift of the shoulders. A shrug. But it’s weak.

And that’s enough of a sign for Ryuji to keep going. “This guy lies through his teeth. He says he’ll give you what you want, but how do you know he’s gonna fall back on his word?”

“I...” Watanabe clenches his eyes shut. Hard. “I have to. I... don’t have a choice, Sakamoto.”

“That’s bullshit!” Ryuji yells. “You _do_! But you know who didn’t? Suzui Shiho, because Kamoshida cornered her against her will and—”

A peal of laughter runs through the room, and Ryuji looks at Kamoshida in a distasteful mix of hate and complete confusion. “Something funny, asshole?”

“When you get all fired up like that... You’re no different from your father.”

(...What?)

“Sakamoto Yuichi... Right, he was that one who ruined the conference with his instability. What was the problem again? He couldn’t keep his emotions in check? Well, looking at you, I can certainly see the family resemblance.”

Shut up.

Shut the hell up.

“I must say: It’s probably difficult for Ms. Sakamoto to have to raise someone who reminds her so much of that deadbeat husband of hers. Whose fault was it that he left in the first place? Was it because nobody could control their unruly kid?”

Everything’s spinning. Everything’s rippling in and out of his line of sight.

Shit.

No, he’s _not_ doing that right now.

He’s not gonna let this bastard bring him to tears.

Fuck that.

(Dammit his hands hurt, and he’s trembling so bad he’s not sure how much longer he can _stand_ —)

“Or maybe it’s because Mr. Sakamoto was suspecting Ms. Sakamoto of disloyalty. Returning home late and not even showing up for that conference... Using ‘jobs’ to pardon her being a no-show.”

The voice that urged him to calm down takes on a panicked tone and somewhere in the sliver of calm in his mind, Ryuji wonders if he’s ever heard Akira sound so... _emotional_ before.

“You and Ms. Sakamoto deserved everything he dished out. A loud-mouthed brat and his cheating bitch of a mother.”

There’s a noise that singes his very ear drums. He doesn’t realize the scream came from him until his fist has successfully dug into that cocky-ass smile burning Kamoshida’s mouth.

And _damn._ It felt good punching him, watching this arrogant bastard stumble over his own feet in a dance of confusion. He wanted to do it again. And again, and again, and again, until he could feel wetness on his knuckles.

(Watanabe’s eyes are wide with shock. All it takes is a look from Kamoshida for him to hurry out the room with tail between his legs.)

The world tilts, stars dance in his line of sight, and his feet are no longer touching the ground. It’s so hard to breathe, God _dammit_ — By the time he realizes he’s being pinned against the wall, he’s being flung forward, tripping over himself to regain balance. His forehead cracks against the edge of one of the teacher’s desks, and the pain blinds him for a split second.

Through the tears that begin to prick at his eyes, he can weakly make out the layout of the room.

But a split second is still too late.

For once, the twinge of fear trickles down his spine as Kamoshida stands over him. The swelling of his mouth isn’t as satisfying as it was a minute ago.

“You arrogant _brat_!”

Pain explodes against his leg, wrenching an exclaim from his mouth.

“I am and always will be above you!”

The kick to his chin makes his teeth clack loudly and his tongue flinch ( _You’re a_ teacher _!_ he wants to scream. _Stop it!)._ He’s brought forward by the lapels of his uniform. He will not show weakness in the face of such a monster. He won’t, he won’t, he won’t...

“If no one else will teach you respect...”

And in that moment, Ryuji would look back and _swear_ his heart stopped. Just for a nanosecond, he felt the veins seize, the blood turn cold from fear.

Kamoshida’s eyes, no... a person’s eyes were _not_ supposed to flicker white, pupils dilating to slivers.

“What the...?” Ryuji managers to sputter. “What the hell _are_ you?”

The hard floor against his already weakened body is his answer.

Something _crunches,_ then pain. It’s so much agony in just one sound – one _feeling_ – and he’s screaming and screaming.

Then the anguish reaches his brain and the room blinks out of existence.

\--

“ _Ryuji—!!_ ”

He pushes between Ms. Chuno and Inui-sensei, throwing himself at Ryuji’s unconscious form. There’s too much blood, a heavy splotch printed into the plaid pants, and he knows better than to tamper with the injury. He’s not a doctor

( _Sojiro wasn’t a doctor,_ he had said to Kitagawa.)

but none of the teachers seem to be in a rush.

Mishima remains by the door, mouth ajar in shock as he calls weakly, “Sakamoto-kun...?”

“This delinquent attacked me,” Kamoshida’s reasoning is no better than a mosquito at his ear. He doesn’t care if the teachers can see the glare he throws, sees the anger burning in his eyes. “When he wouldn’t let up, I had no choice but to defend myself!”

From one teacher to another, not a word is said. But Akira can see how they shift in discomfort (disbelief, he wants to believe). He doesn’t know why he clings so desperately to the hope they will stand up to Kamoshida, to be there for a student – a _victim_. The disgust and anger well up in him as they look away. For as selfish as they are, there is no way they can truly believe every lie that sprouts from that teacher’s mouth.

He’s not sure who, but someone (Usami-sensei?) rushes off to call the paramedics back, another escorts Kamoshida out of the room, and Kawakami places a cautious hand on his shoulder.

“Kurusu-kun,” (he can’t look at her. Not now.) “Maybe you should get back to class. We’ll take care of Sakamoto-kun.”

Ryuji’s face is motionless. There’s a laceration that fissures along his forehead, and that alone stokes the flames of his anger. He doesn’t want to leave. Take care? Akira wants to laugh. Because they did so well the first time, right? _Right_?

There’s no one left, he realizes. He doesn’t know if Mishima is still at the door, watching this scene unfold, or if he hurried back to the classroom at the sight of Ushimaru-sensei.

“Come on—"

“You really believe him?”

“Huh?”

And the shock takes him too. It’s not talking back to a teacher, Ryuji may have said. Not if he was saying something that needed to be heard. “Ryuji’s not the type of person who’d willingly hurt someone,” and the plunge already burns his eyes, but he takes it anyway. “Kamoshida’s lying.”

She sighs, and the warmth of her palm slips as she stands. “I don’t have a say in any of this.”

‘ _You’re just not trying._ ’

“Look, just... return to class,” Kawakami sighs. “We can talk about this later, but our priority is making sure he’s okay.”

He doesn’t move. The injuries were not caused by mere slaps that caused bruises to explode on the backdrop of skin. They’re angry with the intent of breaking more than just the surface. His pulse is running laps, and he’s shaking so bad he can’t even keep his hand straight from where it lays atop Ryuji’s.

“Just let me make up for this.”

 _That_ grabs his attention.

“I’ll keep you updated as the day goes on if you promise to go back to your lecture.”

He wishes she’d allow him to go with, much like Ann had done for Suzui. But he feels his head move in a slow nod. Kawakami’s doing her best to give him respite, and he’d be foolish not to take it. Yet as he stands in the doorway to Ushimaru’s room, the gossip

( _they’re not worried for their classmates. Why would they be? Nobody was injured aside from two kids in sports_ )

absolute poison to his ears, he snatches his bag adjacent to his desk. The empty seat in front of him is the last thing he sees before his feet carry him out of room 2-D.

Promises be damned.

\--

The smell of disinfectant doesn’t burn his nose as he expects it too. Perhaps his senses are still clogged with the anger from earlier, or his need to find Takamaki and (later) Ryuji override everything else. But somehow, he manages to navigate through the pressing questions at the front desk, explain that he’s a visitor and a friend of one of the victims from Shujin. He ignores the underserved pity he receives up at the front desk, allowing himself to be led to a waiting room.

Akira finds Takamaki without having to search far.

Forehead pressed against clasped hands that sit on her knees, she looks just the same as she does in class. Though it was always hard to approach her then, it’s harder now.

He expects the nurse (receptionist? He’s not sure who this person is supposed to be) to leave, not walk with him to Takamaki.

“Excuse me.”

Takamaki starts, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, but her voice is surprisingly controlled. “Oh...” and then she sees Akira. “What are you doing here?”

The nurse’s gaze flickers from Takamaki to Akira and then back. “I wanted to tell you that Suzui Shiho’s parents are on their way. They wanted to thank you for your help and that it’s okay if you want to leave now.”

A crestfallen look lays itself upon Takamaki’s visage, swallowing up her neutral expression. “No, I... If it’s alright, I think I want to stay. I’m not in the way or anything, am I?”

“Of course not,” she responds. “Please, take all the time you need.”

And then, she departs.

Takamaki waits until the nurse has stepped into the hallway before turning on Akira. The irritation and annoyance at him from that morning is gone, but he still notices a trace of leftover disbelief. For him, always for him.

“What are you doing here, Kurusu-kun?” she asks, swiping at her eyes with the heel of her palm.

“I got worried, so I ditched class.”

Takamaki blinks. “W-What? For me and Shiho?” she narrows her eyes, twisting the charm hanging from her phone. A nervous habit, he assumes. “You should go back; you’re gonna get in trouble for this, you know. I can look after myself.”

“Are you okay?”

The charm slips from her fingers, swaying back and forth to the beat of a disproportionate tempo. “As fine as I’ll ever be... I just...” the list of patients on the sign by the receptionist window winks back innocently. And for a brief handful of seconds, the only thing he can hear is the news reporter on the T.V.

“ _...in other news, it seems this will be the last exhibit until winter. How strange.”_

  
_“Although it is quite amazing how one person is capable of so many different styles...”_

Takamaki brushes against his arm as she makes her way for the door.

...Would it be intrusive to go after her?

He realizes he doesn’t care as he follows anyway, catching her blonde hair as she rounds the corner. It’s ironic. Nurses and the occasional doctor alike make no move to stop Takamaki aside from a plea not to run in the halls. Akira receives this himself as he nearly bumps into a patient chained to an IV pole.

From her light hair to her stylized Shujin uniform, Takamaki sticks out against the green and white of the vending machines. Back turned, face buried in cupped palms, her shoulders quiver with every restrained tremor that races up her spine.

“Just leave me alone,” her voice is too weak to carry the weight of her words. A demanding tone that crumbles by the time they reach his ears.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he offers.

Takamaki makes a noise in the back of her throat. She turns to him, keeps her head low, and the step she takes is cautious, nothing like the hurried pacing from just a minute ago. It’s the first time Takamaki allows someone to see the face beneath the mask that framed her face so perfectly.

“What about,” she clears her throat as her voice catches. “What about Shiho? I don’t want to be too far.”

They return to the waiting room, Takamaki excuses them at the receptionist desk, leaving her number with the promise of a swift return if Shiho were to awaken in her absence. Akira’s attention flickers to the large doors as they make way towards the main lobby, allowing Takamaki to lead.

No sign of Ryuji.

He hadn’t been transported to another hospital, had he...?

A few buildings down exists a small café that is more expensive and flashier than Yongen-Jaya’s Leblanc. They wait to be seated, surrounded by a plethora of paintings and dark, warm colored walls. Takamaki takes swift glances at her phone, the occasional sniff breaking the silence, and she goes back to scrolling from one window to the next. It’s a weak attempt at distraction, but it gave her something to do.

When they are escorted to their table – a square surface pressed into the corner of the room – she orders politely, and it’s almost painful how she bogs down her emotions with a smile that must hurt more on the inside than it does stretching at her lips.

“So, tell me,” she begins slowly. “You didn’t just come here for me and Shiho. That excuse may work with them, but it won’t with me.” She breaks off with a sigh, resting her chin in her upturned palm. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound so confrontational... I’m just feeling a lot of things right now.”

His eyes follow the drop of perspiration that slips down the glass of water. “You’re right. After you left, something else happened.”

“Huh?” she stares at him with wide eyes. “Wait, what do you mean? Was... someone else hurt too?”

The events are bits and pieces, circling through his mind and lagging as the film catches on a rip. It spins from Ryuji, to Mishima, to Kamoshida, back to Ryuji, to Kamoshida, Kawakami... There’s the familiar, unwelcome pressure of a headache pushing towards the surface. “I’m not sure how willing you are to believe me. But something happened with Ryuji.”

“Ryuji... You mean Sakamoto?” she lays her forearm atop the table, previous slouch abandoned for a posture more attentive. “Tell me what happened.”

“Kamoshida beat him,” (a dark and wet patch against Shujin’s plaid bottoms) “Broke his leg.”

She gasps harshly, sucks in the air through her teeth as she clasps her hands over her mouth. There are a million things that race through her eyes and it’s hard to pinpoint which emotion is the strongest. But he sees the familiar shine of unshed tears that lay across her eyes like a thick film.

“I don’t know how he did it,” it was the femur, his mind numbly affirms. It wasn’t too high nor was it too low to be considered a simple leg wound. One of the strongest bones in the body, and Kamoshida may have cracked it, broken it, _something_. “By the time we arrived...”

No.

By the time he _heard,_ he knew it was too late. He remembers the flock of students that tried to hustle after the teachers to Kamoshida’s office, remembers the barking orders of Ushimaru and a 3rd year teacher when they got too close. Mishima had said his name in worry, a hushed exhale consumed by the voices, the screaming

( _“Oh my God, is that Sakamoto-kun?”_

  
_“What’s wrong with his leg?”_

_“Get back to class_ now!! _”_ )

and he realizes had they not split up, maybe it could’ve been different.

...He doesn’t realize how hard he’s gripping the fabric of his pants until he feels the throbbing ache in his fingers.

“What the hell...?” Takamaki grits out. “That bastard... Aren’t there laws against that? Against harming a student? Why isn’t anyone doing anything?”

Maybe he could’ve done something. He could’ve been there for Ryuji instead of agreeing to search for Mishima.

Right.

It was all—

“—my fault!” Takamaki hisses. “I... It’s because I said ‘no’ to Kamoshida. I...” her breath hitches, and her fist catches the sob that trips from her mouth. “He said he’d take Shiho off the team if I didn’t return the favor. You know what that means, right? I was at work when he called, and I could’ve gone then. What’s a useless part-time job against my best friend?”

“Takamaki-san—”

“It’s my fault, it’s all my damn fault! That’s what Shiho meant earlier. He went after her because I was a coward!” the napkin has been ripped to shreds, strips of its remains strewn in a small pile by her fingers that tremble violently. “Because of me, Shiho might—”

“That’s not your fault,” Akira cuts in, voice unnecessarily harder than he intended. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s him.”

“But I could have done something!” Takamaki protests. The neighboring customers eye them with annoyance twisting their faces. Someone mutters something about ‘bickering couples’ before returning to their meal. And perhaps Takamaki notices because she lowers her voice, “She’s my friend, I could’ve protected her, but instead I put myself first. If it had been the other way around, Shiho... She never would’ve left me to fend for myself,” her teeth dig into her lip as she gives a brief shake of her head. “I deserved it. I deserved everything he threw at me because in the end, I was no better than the other students.”

And he snaps, drops the honorific, “Takamaki!” because it’s not fair that she’s shedding tears over some black hearted monster wearing the skin of a human. Okay. Reel it in. She’s already upset, don’t make it worse like you do everything else— “You were just as much of a victim as Suzui-san and Ryuji, and I won’t let any of you blame yourself for his actions. This isn’t something I can just look over.”

Takamaki leans back, slams her eyes to her lap, making it difficult to read her face. But if the slight tremors were anything to go by... “I believe you, but what’s there to do? You can’t fight against Kamoshida.”

It’s not a realization.

He knew this.

Yet he was unable to hold his tongue. And now his words were speaking louder than his actions.

“Look, I appreciate you taking me here,” Takamaki sighs, scraping together the scraps of napkin. “I mean it, really. You’re different from what I was expecting.”

“Expecting...?” he echoes.

“Well, yeah, I mean...” she gestures vaguely. Her eyes are red, but the tears remain in her eyes this time. “I don’t know, you seem like the type to keep to yourself and I always wondered how you and Sakamoto ended up as friends... I wouldn’t expect that type of person to care enough to talk to me. So... thanks.”

(Was he really that unapproachable...?)

“I’m worried about Sakamoto too... Did they say where they were taking him?”

Akira shakes his head. They kicked him out before the paramedics could even arrive. How fitting. “No. I assumed it would be the same hospital they brought Suzui to.”

“Oh... I see,” Takamaki runs her hands down her face. “I can’t believe any of this... First Shiho and now him too. They won’t ignore this. They can’t...”

“I don’t know.”

She looks away, at the clock hanging on the wall across their table. “We should get back to the hospital. Maybe he’s already arrived by now.”

As she rises from her seat, he goes to do the same—

—The chime of his phone is disruptive to their neighbors, and even Takamaki seems a little taken aback. He checks the ID, irritation plucking at his nerves. To say the least, he is quite surprised when “Sakura” pops up on the screen. It’s not coming from the pay phone but from his own cellular device.

Which means this was not an ordinary call.

Which also meant possibly less-than-satisfactory news.

Bracing himself, he taps the icon. “Hello—”

“ _Hey Akira, I just got a call from your school saying you ditched,” (_ there it was _.) “Care to explain what the hell you were thinking_?”

“There was an emergency,” he says simply.

Sojiro sighs on the other end. “ _Look, you better have a good reason._ ”

Strange. It seemed nobody bothered to give Sojiro the entire story. “I’ll be right there.”

“ _Oh, and uh... Hey, have you heard from your friend at all?”_

Uh-oh.

“ _Didn’t think he would squeeze out that window but looks like he did._ ”

“He jumped out the window?” (Takamaki gives him a weird look.)

“ _He left a message saying he’d return and your cat had it for some reason. That and... What is this, ‘Weekend Parks’...?”_

Great. Just what he needed to top off his day. “I’ll find him.”

Sojiro mutters something on the other end and the line cuts. Akira tries to recall Kitagawa’s words from the other day for a hint. He hadn’t seemed too interested in Yongen-Jaya, and he wasn’t sure how much yen he had after that shopping spree. For how little he knew about Kitagawa, it made it difficult to pin down his location.

In fact, Kitagawa could be summed up as three things: blunt, art-loving, and stubborn.

It wasn’t much, but it was all he had.

“Who...” Takamaki’s voice breaks into his head. “Did someone jump out a window?”

Akira’s shoulders lift in a half-hearted shrug as he pushes in his seat. “It’s not what you think.”

“Okay then...?”

Kosei was still a possibility; Kitagawa had said he was ready to return. But the idea of Kitagawa going to school while the rest of Tokyo reached towards him with arms open seemed quite farfetched. As far as Akira knew, there was nothing visually-inspiring about a school. At least not Shujin.

...Huh.

Inspiring...

For the past day, from the sketches to the junk food, Kitagawa had practically made Akira’s room his own. A part of him had to admit the artwork had been a nice touch, having made the upper room of Leblanc less bland. Yet despite the details put into Morgana’s fur and eyes or the odd landscapes that graced the paper, Kitagawa hadn’t seemed overly satisfied. Nor had he seemed too impressed with the old theater.

There was one clue, and the other lied in Sojiro’s phone call.

‘Weekend Parks’ was a magazine dedicated to readers searching for a hangout spot.

Or for Kitagawa, a place worthy of slaughtering another sketchbook over.

“You’re not coming, are you?” Takamaki asks as they stand outside the hospital doors. “It’s alright; I’ll keep an eye out for Sakamoto.” and so she holds her phone out to him, screen open to that texting app.

They exchange numbers, and it’s a little odd at first, but his gratefulness overrides any protests. “I appreciate this.”

“Don’t be so formal,” a smile accompanies her words. “It is why you came here in the first place, so think of this as returning the favor.”

Her smile must be contagious, and it’s... nice. “Keep me updated on Suzui-san as well. I’ll be back later.”

“I will. Take care, Kurusu-kun.”

The walk from the hospital to the station, he does not see a single ambulance blaring through the streets. Though Takamaki’s smile filled him with an odd warmth, the cold is much stronger. He takes the train to Inokashira Park and tries not to think of the chill that brushes the inside of his chest.

\--

Summer heat seems more relentless when it strolls through leaves and skates across water than it does through streets and city lights. There are a few of the swan boats buoying along the calm surface of the Kanda river. The sun’s rays glint off their smooth heads and steel feathers, winking back as they drift into the spotlights. Inokashira is at its weakest in summer. It is nothing like the picture that decorates the cover of ‘Weekend Parks’. The picture taken for the summer frame had captured something he is not seeing. And it’s frustrating. Because he’d much rather change the weather than find the angle the cameraman had selected.

The paper crunches loudly and he shoves it into the garbage can.

Compared to the pictures he’d seen in history books or of a painter’s perspective, the sketch had shriveled in comparison. He cannot capture unity of nature and the people that carelessly walk all over it. The minute he tries drawing a person who seems to hold still, they shift. Or worse, get up and leave.

Had he not cared for art, he would have settled for the motionless drawing of the river. But this assignment was as important as the last, as would the next.

There are a few hundred-yen coins that shuffle around in his pocket as he moves. It had been more than enough for this useless round trip. In his current situation, he has no way of restocking Leblanc’s cash register drawers. But it’s another favor Yusuke intends to return before he’s done with Sojiro and Kurusu.

“What are you doing?”

He’s beginning to think the mere _thought_ of Kurusu’s name is enough to summon him. “I should be asking you the same thing.”

“Sojiro was worried,” he leans against the fence, blocking the empty space sitting between Yusuke and the trash can. “You jumped out the window.”

“And landed perfectly on my feet,” the pride leaks into his voice without meaning. It hadn’t been a painful fall, the shock that lanced up his legs nothing compared to the slamming of the concrete against his side a few nights back.

Kurusu sighs and says...

...Nothing.

He doesn’t need it spelled out; there’s something off.

“My apologies,” Yusuke finds himself saying. The drawing that stares up at him would need to be trashed too. “It was not my intention to worry either of you.”

“No, I think I would have done the same after being locked up,” Kurusu continues to avoid his eyes. “It was oddly kind of you to leave a note.”

 _It would have been rude not to_ , his mind wants him to say. “You seem troubled.”

“Tired,” Kurusu pushes away from the rail, avoids brushing his glasses as he runs a hand down his face. “Don’t worry about it.”

Yusuke follows behind, having wasted enough time filling out his sketchbook with less-than-satisfactory drawings. Hopefully there were more brochures or magazines in Kurusu’s room that gave him other places to explore.

“Would you be willing to give me an answer?” he takes Kurusu’s frown as a sign to continue. “I may be able to help.”

Kurusu shakes his head, as if closing the conversation before it can even be breached. “It’s not your fight.”

“No, but I am capable of listening.”

There’s a pause as the natural calm of Inokashira Park morphs into the bustling cacophony of city life. It was possible to gather inspiration and images from noise. For once it’s difficult to focus even with the background activity. It only takes one look at Kurusu to know why.

“I don’t mind,” Kurusu finally says. “But it can’t be here.”

How ominous. “Very well.”

They somehow manage to grab a seat at the back of the cart. As Kurusu focuses on the scenery that blurs by the windows, Yusuke finds himself fixating on the very drawing he intended on chucking aside. He erases a stray line there only to trace back over its remains. Without color, the sketch is tasteless. Still-life, in his opinion, did much better in charcoal or graphite, but Inokashira was not Inokashira without its brightness and diversity spilling into the sketched trees or flowing water.

He can’t find the unity that is supposed to tie all the pieces together. Each section – the road, the trees, the river – stand as their own piece. Instead of forming Inokashira, they are pieces of a park that do not exist. Compared to the photographs stapled in Kurusu’s book, this is an insult to the very beauty of Inokashira.

There’s no place to throw away trash, so he slashes an angry line from one corner to the other, then repeats. Later that night he would have to return the money of this complete waste of time.

“It was good.”

Yusuke blinks, looking at Kurusu who’s staring down at the monstrosity.

“You put a lot of effort into it.”

He gives a half-hearted shrug, flipping the cover back over to hide it from any unfortunate eyes. Kurusu didn’t need to torment his mind with such poor art. Besides, he hated it when people looked over his shoulder while he drew... If crossing out his artwork could be _considered_ drawing. “And a waste it was.”

“I liked it,” Kurusu responds simply.

“Yes, well...”

“We are our worst critic.”

“Precisely. Which is why I won’t settle for this when I can create something better,” he pauses. “Do you want it?”

“If you hadn’t mutilated it, then yeah, maybe. But I think I have enough drawings back home as it is; your generosity knows no bounds.”

He feels his lips twist into a smirk. Kurusu was rather amusing. “Did I not tell you your room would be less dull thanks to my hard work?”

“Don’t ruin the moment, Kitagawa.”

...They end up giving their seats to the elderly woman that steps on board. He’s used to standing and it makes it easier to hide away his sketchbook from curious eyes... not that he intends on opening it now that Kurusu deemed his artwork ‘nice’. There were better things for him to look at such as his paintings or charcoal drawings, or even the—

Well... The shoddy camera on his phone couldn’t capture the beauty of a painting.

(Not that he _had_ his phone to begin with.)

There’s an anticipated silence that settles between them the remainder of the way to Leblanc. Something lurks below the surface, waiting for the wrong set of words to bring it out. It’s a tension that he recognizes too well, but not one that he’s familiar with from Kurusu. They were not on even ground, but it never felt so heavy before. Yusuke should be worried that he feels the prickle concern for whatever troubles him. Instead he finds himself worrying _for_ Kurusu instead, not worrying because of this burning need to know what happened to sour the mood.

And he can’t fathom why.

The day is still young when they reach Leblanc, and he doesn’t realize how early it is until he sees the hands on the wall are resting at exactly three. He almost forgets about Sakura-san...

“Ever heard of using a door?” he quips.

What an odd question. “At the time, the window had been more convenient. I didn’t want to disrupt your work and I figured you would not have approved of where I was going.”

“You’re not our damn prisoner, but I still would have liked to know where you went off to. You complained about dizziness this morning and you try to remedy it by climbing out the—” he breaks off with an exhale, pinching at the space between his eyebrows. “Whatever, you’re not hurt or anything, are you?”

Yusuke shakes his head.

“Good. Oh, and Akira...” (Hm?) “I got a phone call earlier...”

“The school?”

“From back home.”

It’s amazing how quickly someone’s expression can change at the usage of certain words. The subtle change from neutral to apprehension on Kurusu’s face was quite eye-catching. ‘Home’ should not be the catalyst for unease, but for Kurusu, that is exactly the case. It is another layer to him that Yusuke does not (and may _never_ ) know.

“Yusuke,” he’s a little taken aback when Sakura-san addresses him. “Help yourself to some of the curry on the stove.” Unspoken: Why don’t you head upstairs?

He obliges, but not without a thank you.

It’s hard to avoid looking at Kurusu’s face as he takes a seat at the bar.

So he leaves the room.

\--

Ann’s fingers fly across the keyboard on her screen as she sends her message to Kurusu. Much like Shiho, she hadn’t been allowed entry to Sakamoto upon his arrival. But she had the opportunity to see him as they transport him on a gurney. The injuries across his face

(and his _leg_ , what the absolute hell happened to his leg...?)

weren't from a stupid spat from one frustrated teenage boy to another.

Kurusu told her it wasn’t so, but she can’t push away guilt.

Earlier, one of the nurses had seen her, and the look on Ann’s face must not have been as neutral as she thought because they instantly tried to assure that he’d be fine, that they would do their best. They had asked for her name, soon realizing she was the same girl that accompanied that ‘other patient’. She found herself desperately hoping they asked for details of injuries, if she knew anything, because this was _not_ a mere coincidence.

She can’t give an answer, but she can point a finger in the right direction.

It wasn’t too surprising when they didn’t.

Instead she watched as the doors closed shut with a muffled clap before returning to the waiting room. Maybe Sakamoto’s name appears on the list as well – she doesn’t know if she can look and still be okay.

(“ _When you’re done pretendin’ everything’s fine and dandy, let us know_.”)

And once the message delivers, she realizes she truly is done pretending.

\--

 **TAKAMAKI.** hey, Kurusu-kun

 **TAKAMAKI.** they brought in sakamoto, but he hasn’t come out of er yet

 **TAKAMAKI.** i’m worried

 **AKIRA.** Me too.

 **AKIRA.** We’ll have to be there for him. Suzui-san too.

 **TAKAMAKI.** yeah.. you’re right

 **TAKAMAKI.** thanks

“Where are you going?” Kitagawa’s voice carries from the recliner. As usual, there’s a sketchbook open, but for once he’s not focused on the drawings. There’s no force behind the words. It was odd to hear such gentleness coming from him. He wonders if hell’s beginning to freeze over, but realizes it’s probably just the draft from the open window above his bed.

“For a walk,” Akira finds himself saying.

And for once he wishes Kitagawa would brush him off, bury himself back in artwork. He doesn’t. “You’re still troubled. Is this related to your conversation with Sakura-san?”

He says nothing.

“Are you going to call them?”

“No,” Akira exhales heavily, leaning against the table sitting by the stairs. His bag is _right there_ , he could just leave Kitagawa hanging. It’s not any of his concern. “That’s something for another day.”

Sojiro had not given him the details other than ‘your mother called. You should call her back when you’re ready’. For once Akira was glad there were customers. The patience had been drained out of him the instant he caught sight of Ryuji’s unconscious body. To have his parents yelling at him from the other line...

Kitagawa’s scrutiny is uncomfortable, and he wants to tell him to back off, go back to his doodling.

“Then if it’s not about your family,” Kitagawa starts slowly. “It’s about your school, Shujin Academy, correct?”

An accurate guess. Actually... it was _too_ accurate.

“I assumed as much.”

“How do you know that?”

He expects Kitagawa to give him a smug look, maybe give an offhand comment about how sharp his intellect is. Then Akira realizes he doesn’t understand Kitagawa at all. There’s nothing to be gained from rooming with someone for two days. “I find it difficult to block out yours and Sakura-san’s voice – the customers as well. Do not take that the wrong way,” Kitagawa adds hastily. “If I am overstepping my boundaries, let me know.”

He kind of is. But the part of Akira that is curious, that wants to know, is somehow stronger than the irritation and impatience that pinprick him from the inside.

“I heard on the news as well. Someone from your school threw herself off the roof.”

“She didn’t know what to do,” Akira’s voice is stern. “Many of the students there feel cornered.”

Kitagawa’s expression darkens. “The media certainly enjoys twisting the story. If they happen to catch the right person, they will believe any story weaved by the public. I am certainly not accusing this girl of anything. I know better than to believe the stories they sprout on television or in newspapers. But that girl... Suzui Shiho, was it?”

‘ _They gave her name? So quickly?_ ’

“Perhaps you’ll be able to answer this: What made her feel so threatened that she had to escape?”

Akira shakes his head. “You sound like the press.”

“It’s not my intention. I just want to know.”

“For what?” Akira counters. “We’ve tried gathering evidence from students, but in the end, we’re all helpless to oppose them. Now, there’s nothing that can be done.” _We may already be too late._ “In this world, power and hierarchy are everything. Without power, we’re no better than the dirt beneath their boots.”

Throughout their exchange, Morgana had been uncharacteristically quiet, not meowing up a storm and pacing back and forth in front of him and Kitagawa. Akira spots him at the foot of the bed, watching them with careful eyes. It’s as if he wants to _speak_... and then Akira grows aware that he hasn’t garnered much sleep in the past three days, so this was definitely all in his head.

He was just a cat. What did he know – what did he _care_ – about the chaos that occurred among and between humans?

And yet, it’s as if Kitagawa isn’t the only one listening.

“What if...” and Akira’s attention snaps back as Kitagawa sighs. It’s resigned, only filling him with more confusion. “There was a way to fix things. To temporarily lull the conflict of the world. What if I said it was possible to create change in just a matter of days?”

Akira blinks. “I’d say you were crazy. Change doesn’t just happen overnight, Kitagawa – that’s impossible.”

“Please, humor me.”

And he does, but instead Kitagawa allows the silence to sweep over them. It becomes too much too fast. “Are you saying it’s possible?” _Because it’s not_.

“As it is now, I barely have anything to testify against. You’ll need to tell me—”

“—A court case—?”

“—everything you know, who may have caused Suzui Shiho to jump. We hardly know one another, but I ask you trust me just this once. If I am to fail...” his words hang by their neck, scrabbling desperately for air. “...I will walk out of your life and you can forget you ever met me.”

“You...” Akira digs the heel of his palm against his eye, frustration evident in the huff that pushes past his lips. “I don’t understand any of this. I’m not going to let you do something stupid and risk getting hurt.”

The smirk that follows is the only thing familiar Kitagawa does in that moment. He’s almost relieved to see it. “They can’t hurt me if I stay in the shadows.”

“It sounds as if you’re going to murder someone.”

“Far from it. Trust me.”

“You said that already.”

“I’m aware.”

Kitagawa’s stare is unyielding as is Morgana’s. He pushes away from the desk, ducking his head as he does so in a pitiful attempt to hide from their line of sight. “Fine. I’ll trust you, but I want to know what’s going on.”

“A fair deal. If this is a success, then it shall be your reward,” a pause as Akira looks back at him from the top of the stairs. “Are we going somewhere?”

“ _I’m_ going to the hospital,” no sense in lying if it was going to add to Kitagawa’s bucket of questions. “If you want information, then you’re coming too.”

His eyebrows knit together, but he follows anyway. “Hospital? To see Suzui-san?”

The noise of Leblanc crawls closer as they descend step after step. He doesn’t answer, giving a quick update to Sojiro (he has a key so there’s no need for him to keep the café open any longer) without leaving room for a comment or protest, and they’re out the door. Only now does he realize he should have texted Takamaki.

“Not just her,” he finally says. Ryuji’s name looks back at him from the screen innocently. It’s almost insulting. “I should start from the beginning.”

“Please do.”

It’s difficult to talk about Kamoshida and his abuse on public trains, but somehow, in between the silence, he does it. There’s the biting question (“What are you planning to do?”) he wants to hurl at Kitagawa. All it takes is one look to confirm that Kitagawa _is_ taking this seriously, for Akira to file the question for later.

A ‘reward’, huh...?

He could play along.

\--

She lost count of the hours after Kurusu left.

But she bites the bullet and smiles when Shiho’s parents finally arrive, successfully booting her from her bedside to be there for her daughter. They were nice about it, and it wasn’t really _them_ who kicked her out. Ann shouldn’t be in the way of a family, especially when they were surrounded by white walls and machines. She chances one last look through the glass window before retreating down the hall. They hadn’t let anyone in to see Sakamoto aside from his mother. Yet Ann can’t bring herself to leave until she sees him too.

It is both surprising and expected to see Kurusu back in the lobby. Expected because Kurusu wasn’t the type of person to leave his friends

( _leave_ Ryuji, her mind quips. _He’s not here for you_.)

but also unexpected because was there a reason he brought a visitor with him?

“Kurusu-kun?” she tries to greet, but it comes out more as a question. “And...” Hm. She really can’t put a name to this face. In fact, she’s never seen _anyone_ like him before. He’s quite tall, dark hair and dark eyes, and he seems just as surprised to see her. The idea of Kurusu having friends outside Ryuji just seemed so foreign.

“It’s nice to meet you, Takamaki-san,” he greets with a simple bow. “My name’s Kitagawa Yusuke.”

Ann blinks, shakes her head just briefly because... what? “You know my name?” she fixes Kurusu with the best accusatory stare she can muster. “Hey, Kurusu-kun... You wanna start explaining?”

He doesn’t look the least bit guilty. What nerve! “It’s a long story,” he says instead. “Thank you for your message.”

“Message? What— Oh, right.” they had a right to know. At least Kurusu did. “I don’t think they’re allowing any visitors just yet. You could try asking though,” her gaze shifts. “Are you going too, Kitagawa-kun?”

“Eventually,” he responds. “I was hoping to talk with you first.”

This must not have been scripted for Kurusu’s giving him an equally weird look as well. “Me? Um, sure, but... why?”

“There are a few things that I need clarification for, and I think you’ll have the answers I need.”

She can’t help looking to Kurusu for help. “This sounds like it’s leading up to one of those interrogations you see in movies.”

He shrugs. “Well, you’re not too far off when Kitagawa’s concerned,” Kurusu doesn’t react at the offended look he’s given, but he does address him, “Try to lay off the heavy questions. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Ann waits until he’s out of sight, asking someone at the desk for Ryuji, before she turns back to Kitagawa. He’s strange, is the first thing her mind lands on when it’s just the two of them. What kind of school did this guy even go to? Or maybe he was one of those kids who was home schooled. He _did_ look a bit polished for his age. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something about him felt off. Lonely. And it’s no wonder she picks up on this because she’s recognizes it.

They’re standing in the middle of the room, unmindful of the occasional stares that linger longer than others.

Kitagawa stares. Ann stares back.

They haven’t exchanged a word, but this is just too awkward.

“Hey,” she starts. “So, you want to talk or what?”

It’s as if the lights have been switched on inside his head. “Yes, I do. At what point did Kamoshida Suguru begin—”

“Wait, stop right there!” And she doesn’t mean to, really, but she plants her palms against his shoulders and gives a light push. She’s not sure how someone can look so innocent after launching such personal questions. “You can’t just- Ugh, follow me, got it? We’ll go speak somewhere else.”

Ann drags him, quite literally, to the vending machines out in the hall. It was secluded enough and easy to scope out anyone who dared to eavesdrop. That jerk, Kurusu... Just how much did she tell this guy? A complete stranger at that?! So what if he knew Kitagawa – she didn’t! And to talk with him about such personal matters...

Alright, slow down. Count to ten, things went better when laid out.

One. Shiho tried to kill herself. It was because she couldn’t take it anymore. It was a last resort for the people who turned the other way.

Two. Sakamoto’s leg was indeed broken, and he too was in the same hospital.

Three. Kamoshida’s fault, not hers even if she couldn’t fully agree with Kurusu. It was Kamoshida’s fault, it was his fault, not hers—

Four. Shiho’s parents hadn’t looked nearly as broken as they should have.

Five. Sakamoto’s mother _had_. When was the last time she saw her...? Middle school? Back when Sakamoto was Ryuji, and she was Ann, and Suzui was Shiho.

Six. Kamoshida would stop at nothing to reach out to her. To contact Hanasaki-san was _disgusting_ , and Kurusu wouldn’t let Ann blame herself for Shiho, but he can’t stop her from this. She’d have to change her cell phone number and erase Hanasaki’s name from her list of references.

Seven. Helplessness was what her life had become. Grin and bear it, a philosophy she had to live by even if it hurt.

Eight. A broken deal because she just couldn’t do it. The results were a best friend straddling the line of death and life, her chances at being a regular on the team swept aside like dirt under a rug, and no walls between her and that predator who had that smile she just wanted to punch off his arrogant face.

Nine. Lilies. Her gut still coiled at there mere stench, heart dropping at the sight of them sitting innocently at _Rafflesia_

(or tucked in a pretty vase for her sent by Kamoshida)

and she could almost _gag_ thinking about them.

Ten. A stranger by the name of Kitagawa Yusuke, who knew more than she was comfortable with. Motives: unknown. She just hopes Kurusu’s trust isn’t misplaced.

“Why do you want to know about Kamoshida?”

“I believe if the right actions are taken, change can occur,” Kitagawa’s answer is simple. She waits for the elaboration, but instead he continues looking over the limited options on the vending machines.

“That’s not very specific,” she counters. “If you want to know more, you’re going to have to explain better than that.”

Kitagawa looks up from the buttons, face hard. “My intentions are not malicious. Let’s try not to divert from the topic. If you want my help, I need as much information as I can get. That is all I can tell you right now.”

Blindly placing her faith in someone had always done more harm than good. She doesn’t even _know_ how to approach someone like Kitagawa. “So... that’s it? You’re not going to say anything else?”

“No.”

Oh. Well... she could be selective with her information too. “Okay...” surely he wouldn’t need an elaborate explanation. “Kamoshida came to our school about a year ago Shujin’s last coach quit. He was a medalist in the Olympics, so I guess they thought he was suited for the entire division?” A stupid decision. It was pointless to put faith in just _one thing_ scribbled on a resume. “There were rumors about physical abuse, but nobody really did anything. The teachers ignored them, and some of the students covered for Kamoshida. But he’ll punish his students for not doing well, or if they piss him off… He holds them after school for ‘special practice’. I’m not sure about you, but bruises like that don’t come from a stray ball...”

And she hesitates.

That gives Kitagawa enough time to fill in. “Is that what happened with Suzui-san?”

Ann flinches. Hard.

“Sakamoto Ryuji as well?”

“I...” she fumbles around her words, trying to separate Sakamoto’s case from Shiho. “I don’t know what happened with Sakamoto or what caused Shiho to jump. But I know that bastard had something to do with it.”

His eyes ask for more, waiting patiently. She’s not ready to tell him though. Not yet.

“He did something to her, and I...” _wasn’t there to stop it_. _“..._ that’s all I know, or it’s all I can tell you.”

“And you?”

Kitagawa’s challenging her; he wants her to spill everything. But he’s not going to pry until she has nothing left. He wants to be given the information, not take it by force. It was an odd way of respecting boundaries. If that’s what she could call it...

 _‘Not again,_ ’ she whips her head away to swipe at her eyes. “Who gives a shit...?” she snaps. “I’m not the one lying in a bed.”

“That doesn’t mean you’ve suffered any less.”

Her finger twists around a lock of her hair absently. She’s better at this than most: Talking to people. But sometimes, she can’t do it. And now happens to be one of those times. It still surprises her when Kitagawa walks towards the entranceway. “Wait, where are you going?”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Takamaki-san,” he says. “Tell Kurusu I’ll meet him back at Leblanc.”

“You’re not making any sense...” her words trail off and her gaze follows him down the hall until the doors close shut behind. “Kurusu has some weird taste in friends...”

Not that she was one to judge. She must be doing something wrong if everyone looked at her as if she were a freak, preferring to create or dip into the rumors surrounding her and Kamoshida. Shiho didn’t judge her. Neither did Sakamoto or Kurusu. And Kitagawa hadn’t pointed fingers either.

But there was no sense in getting her hopes up.

She couldn’t.

\--

It is by some miracle that Ryuji wakes when he’s in the room. It was a dumb stroke of luck that they allowed him to visit. Ryuji’s mother had left momentarily to speak with one of the doctors about the damage that had been done. Until she returned, he would stay with Ryuji.

The stench of antiseptic was stronger in the rooms than it was in the halls. There’s something wrong about Ryuji confined to a hospital bed, white cast all but swallowing his whole leg and pelvis to contain the damage done to the femur bone. Outside of a weak smile, Ryuji could only focus on the orange glow of the descending sun. The hospital chair feels twice as uncomfortable in the strained silence.

And for once, Akira finds himself at a loss for words.

“The doc said it’d take a while for this to heal,” Ryuji finally says. He continues to avoid Akira’s gaze. “Can’t believe this shit...”

Words continue to dodge him. It only allows the anger to boil stronger.

“Pretty sure they let that bastard off the hook. Wouldn’t know. I was out the whole ride here,” he scoffs. “Probably a good thing. I wouldn’t’ be able to take it if I saw them defending him.”

A femur break... Kamoshida snapped it clean, a feat that would be impossible without extreme force. His mind goes to the baseball bat leaning against the corner of Kamoshida’s desk. He very well could have used that... But something felt off. The teachers would have made the connection between a broken bat and a shattered leg, surely...

“Don’t look so down.”

Akira recognizes the half-hearted grin on Ryuji’s face. He’s known him long enough to discern from fake and genuine. This somehow mixes both. It should reassure him. It only stokes the flames of his anger.

“With enough physical therapy, I’ll be back on my feet in no time.”

There’s a truth in that lie, but no, things would not go back to how they were. He doesn’t need to spell it out for Ryuji – he knew as well.

“Hey Akira...” Ryuji’s hands twist in the thin blanket, bunching them between his fingers. “Earlier, when I was fighting with Kamoshida, something was off.”

(His heart tightens into a fist of its own.)

“Yeah, he beat the shit outta me, hurt like hell, but before he did _this,_ ” the word is spat out as if it’s the filthiest curse word to ever spring from his lips. “There was something in his eyes. It don’t make sense to me either, but they just looked weird, like...” he gestured vaguely. “I don’t know, like one of those monsters in kids’ books or something.”

Akira narrows his eyes. “A monster...?”

“Sounds crazy,” Ryuji sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “There was no way I was just high off pain. I know what I saw, and it wasn’t human. But I can’t say that shit to the adults. There’s no freaking way they’d believe that. Probably lock me up in an asylum or some shit for seein’ things.”

It _was_ crazy. Monsters, demons, folklores... none of those existed. But when filth like Kamoshida existed... He can’t shrug off Ryuji’s speculation. Not when

(“ _What if I said it was possible to create change in just a matter of days?”)_

this is the most broken he’s seen Ryuji. Even if he’s only taking his words to provide Ryuji a tiny bit of respite.

Broken, Ryuji... Those words should not go together, and yet they were like two pieces of a puzzle forcibly interlocked, creating a misshapen picture. It wasn’t fair.

“Wonder what they’re talking about...”

By the window, he can make out Ryuji’s mother and one of the doctors. He hasn’t been in Tokyo long enough that he’s formally met her. She has the same eyes as her son. Akira tries not to imagine the words exchanged between them as her face shrivels into hopelessness. Her head turns to look in the room, she catches Akira’s gaze, smiles back weakly.

‘ _They’ll figure something out._ ’

‘ _Just rest for now. It’ll be alright._ ’

The lies are a net with too many holes; it would not catch Ryuji from the disappointing news that awaits him.

“Yeah...”

It’s never been this hard to talk to Ryuji.

“Akira, I think I’m gonna try and rest up a little. Sorry...”

 _No._ I’m _sorry._ His mind trails back to Kitagawa, the sudden shift in attitude and determination to know more about Kamoshida and his victims. “Don’t be,” he says weakly. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

Ryuji nods, keeping his head turned. “See ya.”

The final image that fills his mind is a white room, large machines, and Ryuji in a bed with an unmarked cast wrapped tight around his right leg. It’s all wrong, wrong, wrong...

Frustration and hate swallows him whole, building in his gut and having no way of release. He wants to scream, get back at Kamoshida for causing such damage, and he realizes he wants to make change. They’re all impossible wishes. He can’t even taste the surreal desires without having reality slammed into him, yanking away the fantasies and perfect endings.

Those stories about falling in love, coming to accept oneself as they were... There was a reason fiction was so far separated from reality. It was impossible to blend the two. If this were a folktale, Ryuji’s leg would automatically repair itself, regenerate the pieces that crumbled like sand castles. Kamoshida would have been put behind bars. Suzui’s mental and physical scars wouldn’t exist. Takamaki would have been safe.

But that just wasn’t so.

He finds Takamaki waiting. Alone.

“Kitagawa-kun left,” she responds. “He said he’d meet you back at some place called ‘Leblanc’.”

That sounded like a lie if there ever was one. Kitagawa had something in mind – had said so himself. For him to just turn around and go to Leblanc after wanting to ask questions and taking answers determinedly just seemed too false to be true.

Still. It’s none of Takamaki’s business. And he’s too angry to call up a debate or demand where Kitagawa went off to. Not that she _knew_ by he sounds of it.

“Thanks.”

Takamaki shifts in her seat. “Sakamoto... How was he?”

Akira reaches for the answer, the truth, but it is quick to elude his fingertips. All he can do is shake his head, stuff his hands in his pockets and clench his eyes shut tightly, briefly.

“Really?” Takamaki gasps. There’s a stretch of a pause that sprawls out between them, completely content on delaying the conversation. “Will he be able to walk?”

“He’ll be able to walk and run eventually. But...”

  
_It won’t be the same._

_“..._ it’s going to take a while.”

Silence.

“That’s awful...” is all she can say.

It wasn’t fair, he wants to say. But she knew that already; everybody at Shujin did. And ironically, it truly didn’t matter.

\--

 **???.** Kamoshida Suguru was once an Olympic athlete. He held a consistent record before departing after the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing, China. From this, he won his final gold medal. I managed to find this interview:[File too large.]

 **AKIRA.** Who is this?

 **???.** Kitagawa Yusuke. Have you forgotten already?

 **AKIRA.** I’m a little concerned how you got this number.

 **KITAGAWA.** There are concerning rumors that follow this. He turned to teaching and faced sexual assault allegations in 2011. The court was in his favor and he was able to escape charges. According to Takamaki-san, he was welcomed into Shujin Academy not too long ago, but there have been only rumors of abuse and harassment.

 **KITAGAWA.** Do you understand me so far?

 **AKIRA.** I could have told you all of this.

 **KITAGAWA.** For change to occur, there must be a catalyst and an abundance of information. Tell me: What do you think caused Kamoshida Suguru to turn from an esteemed and respected medalist to a man twisted by his desires?

 **AKIRA.** The medal?

 **KITAGAWA.** Interesting. I thought the same thing.

 **KITAGAWA.** Thank you for your input.

 **AKIRA.** Where are you?

 **KITAGAWA.** Shinjuku. That is all I will say.

 **KITAGAWA.** I do not intend to go back on my word. Leave this to me.

 **AKIRA.** Wait a minute.

[Message failed to send.]

...Huh?

“Hey, you find him yet?” Sojiro’s voice runs up the stairs.

Oh, right.

He hastily jams the cord into his phone, leaving it on his bed to charge. Akira looks down at him, gives a firm shake of his head. The food and water are still there, and there’s not a single note.

But then again, cats couldn’t leave notes.

“Damn... Sorry, I don’t know how he could’ve gotten out. We’ll have some missing posters printed.”

“It’s alright. I’ll search for him again tomorrow.”

A chill runs down his spine, and so he retreats deeper into his room. It’s quieter without Kitagawa and Morgana. Earlier, he couldn’t bring himself to give the full story to Sojiro; the news did a good job of that. At the mention of Kitagawa, he lied, knowing it may very well bite him in the ass somewhere down the line. As for Takamaki and Ryuji... Well, Sojiro didn’t need to know about that.

He’s laid out on the bed, scrolling through the short exchange between him and Kitagawa. At the bottom corner of the screen is a notification.

...There’s no need to click on it though.

Even if he did take time to listen to the nagging voice left in his inbox, he’d just hear it again when they managed to get ahold of him. He admires his own persistence and has no doubt it came from one of his parents – hell, both of them – but it could be such an unlikeable trait too.

The wind whistles softly bringing in another touch of chilling air.

Wait...

He springs up in his bed.

Open window...

He lets out an exasperated groan, sitting up on his knees to snap the latch in place. The cold ceases, the noises of outside life silences at the clap of the window closing.

Next time he saw Kitagawa and Morgana, he’d have to talk with them about using the door.

\--

“This is stupid.” Morgana says, tail twitching. “You’re going to get us caught and then what? If you wind up in some interrogation room handcuffed to a desk, I won’t be able to help. And let’s not forget what it’ll do to your Operation Kamoshida.”

It is not often he sees the courtyard so empty. A ways off lies the shrine itself, wooden doors serving as a weak barrier to ward off any unwanted visitors. Clinging to the eaves of the shrine are large _shimenawa_ , thick rope swinging from one tile to another. And oddly enough, there’s no guard in sight. The night air is much more calming than the heat of day. It’s much easier to concentrate – it is exactly what he needs.

Morgana sighs loudly by his feet. “I still don’t know how you can understand me...” he mumbles, following behind Yusuke as they approach the front. His footsteps are loud against the stone staircase in the silence. “And that medal wasn’t easy to get, by the way.”

Yusuke places a hand upon the wooden surface, fingers brushing against the gold insignia. “Well, you followed uninvited. The least you could have done is make yourself useful.”

“I almost got _caught_! You’re just lucky he’s a heavy sleeper... Anyway, never mind that. Forget about _getting in_ \- what do you plan to do? You haven’t told me anything.”

Morgana’s confusion only furthers his own bafflement. It was a simple procedure that relied on the foundation of heavy research and a trigger. The worst that could happen is letting the rumors and false information fall through the cracks and into the final product. Which is exactly why he took those precautions from the trains to the hospital.

Kurusu’s anger loosely sealed in the face of the public, Takamaki’s sad eyes and neutral mask... He never thought it possible to care for someone in such a short span of time.

...Hm. ‘Care’. The ring of that word was quite dissonant.

His frustration rooted from that night Kurusu hurt him, festering like an untreated wound at being kept under lock despite his obvious disdain. But for as irritated as he was, it couldn’t compare to the compulsion he felt towards Kamoshida.

Yusuke opts to pet him instead, a little cold from the night. “I understand if you choose to wait outside. It would benefit us to have someone on guard.”

“Hey, cut that out!” he snaps, swatting at Yusuke’s hand weakly. “Fine, I’ll watch, but you owe me an explanation.” a pause. “How’re you going to hear me though? You’re not planning on leaving the doors open, are you?”

He feels the familiar tug of a smirk as he puts a little more force against the door. Yusuke wishes he could frame the shock that lights up Morgana’s face as it creaks open softly. It was impressive how an animal could express such raw emotion.

But for now, he’d just have to commit it to memory. Maybe he could have Morgana reenact this display when they were back in Leblanc.

“Don’t worry,” he says, the outline of a _torii_ waiting patiently before the silhouettes of a yawning forest. “They won’t notice a thing.”

And so he steps deeper into the Meiji shrine.

\--

The yowling is not his choice of alarm clock, but it works regardless. His heart clambers into his throat as he jolts upright, head snapping in the direction of the offending noise. The confusion sucks the astonishment and relief under. He narrows his eyes as Morgana scratches from the other side of the window, hurrying to undo the lock.

“Hey, where were...?”

Instead, Morgana ducks out of his reach, leaping to Leblanc’s overhang before landing on the pavement gracefully. He waits for not even a minute before darting down the streets.

“Morgana...!!” his voice is a whip in the night, falling on deaf ears.

Akira flings himself out of bed, not bothering with his glasses on the windowsill as he hurries downstairs, slamming into his shoes and mentally hurling every curse word he knows towards that damn cat. Leblanc’s bell rings in startled urgency as it, too, is jostled from sleep. He catches sight of Morgana at the far end of the road.

He half-walks, half-jogs over, hoping he can snag him before— and he’s taking off again, rounding the corner of the twisted road.

Well then. He’s definitely not getting fatty tuna for the next _month_ after this.

Morgana waits for him at another intersection before ducking out of sight.

This end of Yongen-Jaya is both familiar and foreign. During the day, he doesn’t have time to be exploring less-populated sections, so he _certainly_ doesn’t have business roaming untouched streets with only two hours before the crack of dawn... or at least he _thinks_ it’s two hours.

Damn... No phone either.

“ _Mraw!!_ ” he peeks around the bend of a metal fence.

Akira follows after, not trusting his voice less he call him by every curse in the book. But what waits him at the curve is not what he’s expecting. He finds himself blinking twice to make sure his vision isn’t fooling him.

It’s that altar roofed by a miniature shrine of old wood, branched by stone tōrō. Somehow the entire set remained untouched by the rowdier residents of the district. Perhaps they had enough respect not to interfere with something closely connected to higher beings. There’s a dull-looking torii sitting behind the fence. Undecorated, it blends in better with the colors of Yongen-Jaya’s buildings than it does with its assigned shrine.

“Get down from there,” he snaps when Morgana knocks over a stray idol resting on the altar.

Morgana meows in protest as Akira’s hands close around his middle, hoisting him off the table...

...and admittedly, he _does_ drop Morgana in his shock.

Red strap, _Beijing 2008_ in white stitched into the fabric, and the Olympics symbol etched into the gold of the medal...

“Did you smuggle this?” he means it as a joke (and it’s almost a laugh in itself that he’s talking to his freaking cat).

Morgana’s yowl is not unlike the one he unleashed earlier.

The cool metal is a splash of cold water against his fingertips. It _burns_ , wrenching out a gasp as he pulls back.

And everything _ripples_ like a stone dropped into water that retreats from itself shockwave after shockwave. The world tilts on his side, and he squeezes his eyes shut, expecting to feel the smack of hard ground...

Grass still hurt if there was enough force behind a fall.

Wait.

Grass?

He reaches out a hand, groping at the ground by his side. Dirt clogs beneath his fingernails, the brush of blades of grass tickling his hand with every movement. The sky no longer trembles, but it’s... colorless? He backpedals on his hands, dragging himself into a clumsy sitting position, breath lodged in his throat. He can practically _hear_ the blood as it pounds against his brain.

Fog rolls in the distance, but he can make out the outline of a forest of sorts, green brush a beacon against empty colors.

What in the fresh...

“Ugh, _idiot_!! I didn’t want him to _touch_ it!”

Akira whips around sharply, gaping because really, what the actual hell?

 _“..._ Why’s he looking at me like that?”

A small creature with a large head and equally large eyes blinks back at him. It looks like a cat, but it isn’t. Or was it?

But what... What the hell did this thing do to his _cat_?!

And then this... monster cat-thing’s eyes widen too. “Oh no... Oh _Gods_ , can you understand me?”

Akira says nothing.

“...You can!”

He opens his mouth (“ _You_ understand _me_!”, “What the hell is going on?”, “I... I’m dreaming. That’s all. I’m just dreaming.”) then closes it.

“Damn...” his cat(?) just swore. Huh. “Okay, just calm down... We need to get you out of here. It’s not safe...” and he approaches, holding his hands (paws?) out in a defensive stance, as if touching Akira would cause him to disintegrate or open the earth beneath him.

“Who goes there?!”

Admittedly in the net of his panic, he did not hear the crunch of footsteps in the grass. After Morgana’s new look, he’s not sure what he was expecting. He’s hoping something will hit him hard enough in the head that he’ll be brought back to the real world. But that would be too easy. And as if his shock couldn’t get any worse...

It’s unmistakable. The tall figure, the massive body, the ridiculous hair, the face that just screamed ‘slap me’...

Kamoshida glares down at them, arms crossed.

(The goat horns are quite the addition... as was the... purple skin, red cape, and pink speedo- okay, what the hell was going on?)

“You...” he says slowly. “Why do you look so damn familiar...?”

In another scenario, he’d be more than happy to punch the confusion off his face. He wouldn’t stop there, no, not until he got back at him for Ryuji and Takamaki and Suzui... This bastard, even in another world, had the audacity to play innocent, act as if he knew nothing.

Morgana leaps forward, standing in front of Akira in what he assumes is a protective stance.

“Wait a minute,” Kamoshida’s eyes flicker with realization. He approaches, teeth glinting sharply against the odd color of his lips. “I _do_ know you... You’re that damn brat hanging around Sakamoto all the time,” his mouth contorts into a nasty sneer. “Should’ve known harming one parasite would’ve drawn out the other... Listen, you brat: If you don’t get out of my way, I’ll be forced to do the same to you as I did Sakamoto.”

And for a few minutes, he can forget the abnormal coloring and just the overall appearance. Kamoshida may look less threatening now, but he was _still_ Kamoshida. He was still the man who targeted students who couldn’t defend themselves, who allowed his desires to cloud his judgement, who cornered Takamaki and Suzui, and...

  
_who successfully ended Ryuji’s career._

He sees it briefly: Ryuji’s excitement almost tangible as he managed to break the previous record of a long-graduated upper classman. He remembers the pride that filled his voice as he talked about the track team, his belief that they could overcome any obstacle. He recalls the brief training session that left him drained, Ryuji raring for another round, but more than ready to throw in the towel upon seeing Akira’s exhaustion. Then the excitement when he filled in for that scholarship for sports... And he remembers Ryuji being the one to reach out to him when others turned away.

The smile that always reached his eyes could barely touch his mouth that evening in the hospital room.

“Go to hell...” the words slip out quietly, but they crack loudly against the quiet shell of the atmosphere.

Kamoshida’s face dissolves from a sneer to anger, sparks of disgust flickering to life in his eyes. “You God damned brat... What makes you think a worm like you can talk to _me_?!”

“Get out of my sight-!!”

And his heart skips a string of beats, quelling his blooming rage as Kamoshida _grows_. Akira feels himself take a step back. Kamoshida towers over him a good three-four feet, pulling back his hand as if to spike a ball, black claws branching from blunt fingernails.

In blind panic, his arms bring themselves up in a futile attempt to shield himself.

Kamoshida tears through both fabric and flesh like tissue paper.

It knocks him down, red splattering the ground like flecks of paint, and _God it burns so badly_ , he can feel the scream bubbling in his throat, tripping over itself for release.

And release it does the instant those same claws score across his back.

“Cut it out!!”

Morgana leaps into the fray, hooking into Kamoshida’s leg with his claws.

“What the- Damn mangy _animal_ -! Get off me!”

“Get out of here-!!” Morgana grits out. “Run, before—”

“ _No_...!” the word leaves Akira in a pained exhale as Kamoshida scrapes Morgana off with his foot. Kamoshida slams against the back of his large head, uncaring at Morgana’s pained yelp. “Leave him alone!”

Kamoshida has the nerve to _smile_ and he applies more pressure, slowly, slowly, slowly, jagged toenails sinking into the back of Morgana’s head... He fixes Akira with a cocky smirk. “Consider this punishment for thinking you could go against me.”

The air is punctured with Morgana’s desperate attempt to breathe against soil and grass as he flails against the ground. Panic crushes against his windpipe and his teeth dig into his lip as he forces himself onto his elbows. He can make it... He can crawl over, and just—

‘ _What’s the matter...?_ ’

...What?

‘ _Are you simply going to watch?_ ’

His mind, no, the _voice_ echoes loudly in his ears, pounds against his ear drum. From the ground, his eyes dart from left to right, landing back on Morgana as he squirms violently beneath Kamoshida’s foot.

Who...?, the word forms in his mouth, burns his tongue, but there is nobody in sight. His fingers twist in the grass, struggle for purchase as he brings himself to all fours. The lacerations in his back scream with every exhale, the feel of something wet and warm slides down his sides, seeping into the remains of his worn shirt.

He wobbles.

‘ _Are you intending to forsake him to save yourself?_

No...

‘ _Death awaits him if you do nothing.’_

Akira grits his teeth, reaches out to that voice. ‘ _I_ know _that...!’_ he screams into the swirling dustbowl of his mind. ‘ _I’m trying—_ ’

  
_‘Was your previous decision a mistake then?!’_

His heart seizes, brain signaling every nerve in his body to halt.

Previous decision... mistake... decision, decision, _decision_...!

( _A man twice his height intoxicated by the poison that was alcohol... He advanced on a defenseless woman beneath a black sky, her pleas and cries ricocheting against the walls that pretended to not hear. Akira felt the roughness of the pavement spike into the arch of his foot through the worn soles of his shoes._

  
_“Please!” her eyes met his._

  
_He couldn’t ignore that._

  
_“Help me!”_

  
_Akira’s hand found itself on the man’s shoulder, tugging to pull him away when he refused to listen—)_

“How do you know that?” (Kamoshida pauses, shoots a glare for _daring_ to interrupt.) “What are you?”

The laughter that follows chills him to his very core.

‘ _Vow to me..._ ’

Pain lances through him in small rivulets, bursting from his heart as it too breathes harder. The image before him swims in and out of his view, a flash of something’s face (black, red, twisted smile, horns) flickering once, twice, and his body is on fire.

He can’t breathe, his throat burns in time with the agony that singes every nerve alive, and there’s a _terrible_ noise that penetrates his very ears. Through the hysteria surging along his spine, he realizes the noise is coming from _him_ , that he’s _screaming_ while his body convulses in a terrible seizure, limbs spazzing on their own accord.

“What the hell...?”

Footsteps crunching the grass, his mind somehow registers the sound above the panic that begins to soak any grain of common sense. There’s the sound of sputtering from Morgana.

“Shut the hell up!!”

His teeth clamp against his tongue, the taste of copper exploding in his mouth as he rolls along the ground once, twice, before stopping. The grip of agony is unyielding, and his breath saws in and out of him faster and faster until it rattles his chest, making it near impossible to breathe. He feels instinct draw his body closer, screams at him to curl into a tight ball as he feels Kamoshida’s forefoot dig into his back, jab at the side of his face with those damned claws, crush against his ankle—

He screams the instant the snap breaches his ears.

All the while, the voice taunts him for holding back, tells him to open his heart, to stop resisting, to fight back against the current that assaults both mind and body.

Somewhere in the insanity of agony’s web, he sees – _feels_ – the blue flames licking along his legs, singeing his clothes.

“Whatever the hell you are...” (and maybe he really _is_ growing delirious when he catches the hitch of _panic_ in Kamoshida’s voice.) “I’ll kill you!”

Morgana screeches somewhere in the distance.

He glimpses something materialize in Kamoshida’s hand, a sheen of golden energy that stings his eyes more than the tears that threaten to spill down his face, mingle with the wetness of blood that slips into his mouth from the tear in his cheek from Kamoshida’s beating.

‘ _Is this... how it ends...?_ ’

“Die!!”

‘ _No. Your time is not today._ ’

A scream that is not his own fills the empty void and Kamoshida is wrenched back violently, the ball of light blinking out of existence as he falls back, head smacking against the hard ground.

Akira’s curiosity pushes him to look through swollen eyes.

The pain stops, the flames snuffed, and the agony drains from his body.

Kamoshida thrashes in the grip- no, the _jaws_ of a large white beast. Nine tails, a litany of snarls that sends chills down his own spine as it gives its head a sudden shake... He blinks _hard_.

It’s a fox.

No. It’s just as much a monster as Morgana and Kamoshida, burying its fangs again and again, dark substance dotting its muzzle and glaring on its teeth, spurting from the immense wound in between Kamoshida’s neck and shoulder. For a split second, just _briefly_ , he feels pity for Kamoshida as he’s dragged back by that stupid cape when he attempts to crawl away.

“What are you doing?!” Morgana’s body obscures half of his line of sight, voice poking a hole in his train of thought. “Let’s get out of here!”

“Please, I-I didn’t mean it! None of it!” Kamoshida’s voice is hiked with terror as begs. “Don’t hurt me...! No... No!! I can change! Give me another _chance_...!!”

The fog swallows them up as the fox hooks its fangs into his ankle, dragging its prey into the mouth of the forest. Kamoshida’s pleas drown beneath the unnatural pressure of the atmosphere.

And as Kamoshida’s voice disappears, so does the last pinpricks of energy that coursed through his veins.

“Oh no...” Morgana gasps, and Akira turns to look up at him as best he can. He’s unable to follow his gaze, but he knows he’s eyeing the slash marks in his back, the seared clothes, the hideous state of his assaulted body, his _ankle_ — “This isn’t good... Hey, can you walk? I can’t get you out of here myself.”

“Just go,” he manages, slumping against the ground in defeat. The aftershocks of pain begin to override his senses. “You’re okay?”

Morgana shoots him a glare. “Idiot... What he did to me is nothing compared to you. He can’t hurt me as much as a...” he breaks off, shaking his large head. “None of that for now. I’ll explain later. Come on, you have to try. I-I can heal you, just you gotta stay with me!”

And try he does. But each time his muscles tighten, they ignite, cry in protest. And he’s tired... so tired...

He shakes his head.

“Akira...!”

  
_Sorry, Morgana._

  
_I can’t._

The world blinks out of existence before his head can crash against the hard grass.

And the voice does not return.

\--

The whispers seem to follow him wherever he goes, Ryuji notices. But the exchange student doesn't care. Or if he does, he doesn't show it. Shujin Academy liked to talk, to fabricate unbelievable stories for their poor taste in entertainment. His senpais and kouhais alike engaged in the gossip as well.

"Is he really here for Shujin's sports program?" one girl had said.

"I hear it's the sports program," girl two responded.

"He doesn't look very athletic though..." girl three scoffed.

And not for the first time, Ryuji wishes they didn't have co-ed gym classes. It was difficult enough dealing with Kamoshida's blaring voice. Having the girls' gossip bubble beneath the arrogant son of a bitch only widdled at his patience.

He pays no mind to the new student, letting him sit against the wall alone.

That is until Kamoshida spikes a volleyball into Mishima Yuuki's face.

Ryuji is set to sprint over the second Mishima crumples to the floor, cradling his head with his hands. His feet drag to a halt when Kurusu Akira beats him to the gun, kneeling and supporting his upper back. He says something, but Ryuji's already turned on Kamoshida, who ducks under the net.

Fake innocence never looked good on anyone. It especially didn't on Kamoshida. "What the hell?" he snaps, foot stomping against the gym floorboards loudly. Ryuji feels everyone's eyes on him, but he doesn't care. He's had people stare at him before - it wouldn't be the last time.

Kamoshida spares him a stiff glance, eyes hard and unreadable. "Someone take him to the nurse's office," he orders, making no move to inspect Mishima. "Watch your mouth, Sakamoto," Kamoshida says when Kurusu volunteers. "You don't want to spend another day after school, do you?"

Bastard.

He bites his tongue in his anger, and if he doesn't leave with the new kid now, he was going to do something he was going to regret. "I'm going with him," Ryuji scowls, making way to Kurusu and Mishima. He plants his foot against the door handle, shoving it open with more force than necessary as it smacks against the innocent wall behind it.

"Is he always like that?" Kurusu had asked once Mishima had been taken off their hands.

"Yeah," Ryuji responds. There's a loose thread on the hem of his shirt, and he knows better than to pull at it. He does anyway. "Been like that since he got here. And you saw how fake he was back there, trying to act like some hero by telling us to bring him to the nurse's office. He's full of shit, and everyone just yucks it up."

By the time his words catch up to him, Ryuji internally flinches, chancing a small peek at Kurusu's face for any sign of surprise or discomfort. He doesn't find what he was expecting.

Kurusu was observant. "I could tell."

It was odd how three words broke the dam. No one had agreed with him on Kamoshida. It was either, 'don't start, Sakamoto-kun' or 'he's still our teacher' or 'hey, you wanna go somewhere after school?'; there was never an agreement. "Yeah.. But you know, it was kinda nice and all to see you check up on Mishima. Everyone gets pounded in the face, but no one really gives a shit even though they know it ain't right."

Nothing.

He must have been that quiet type of guy who was probably book smart. The glasses were very convincing.

Unable to take the sudden awkwardness, he clears his throat, mind scrabbling for a different subject. "Anyways, you're that new kid, right? What brings you out to Shujin?"

And Kurusu Akira speaks, but Ryuji can't hear the words. His head tilts in confusion, and he's prepared to ask Kurusu to repeat when he wakes up with the uncomfortable mattress of the hospital bed against his back.

Morning light spills into his room, and he runs a hand down his tired face. His legs are buried under the blanket, and for a while, he sits there quietly as the weight of the present crushes against his shoulders. Ryuji fumbles for the remote buried in the sheets, unable to stand the silence of the room any longer. And for a while, he flips through the channels listlessly, not caring what was on, just _needing_ noise to fill the empty void of the room.

His phone is plugged into the wall, sitting on the table by his bed. Though he insisted on not wanting it, his mother didn’t listen, countering it was the only way she could contact him.

Ryuji knew why she really left it though.

She knew how much he liked Akira.

His grip tightens on the remote and he jabs at the button harshly-

-it trips against the lip of the table, clattering to the floor loudly.

Great.

Now he could listen to depressing news until the next round of nurses came in.

“ _It looks like we may have a special guest today!_ ” the hostess on that one talk show he always ignored says. Her acting is so fake it made Takamaki look like a veteran. “ _Give a round of applause for—”_

 _“We interrupt this broadcast with an important announcement. Last night at approximately 5am, a video was uploaded to Shujin Academy’s website._ ”

Ryuji glares at the screen. “Are you shittin’ me...?”

Of course he’d be reminded of his school at a time like this.

“ _The uploader was none other than sports teacher Kamoshida Suguru. But the contents of this video may surprise you..._ ”

...What?

Kamoshida looks worse for wear, and he’s not sure if it’s because of poor camera quality, or because he’s been drinking his ass out. Either way, he doesn’t give a damn, sitting straighter and wishing he hadn’t dropped the damn remote because he’s speaking so freaking low.

“ _I... have something to confess,_ ” deep breath. “ _I have done things that are unbecoming of a teacher. I... physically abused and sexually harassed my students. And I am the reason why Suzui-san jumped_.”

(he doesn’t care if the tears are real or not. They’re pathetic either way.)

“ _I even cornered Takamaki-san into having a relationship with me. When she wouldn’t do as I said, I went after Suzui-san. And I broke Sakamoto-kun’s leg” (_ a twinge of pain flickers at those words) _“when he came to my office. He knew what I was doing, and I retaliated by hurting him. I am making this video to say I am resigning from teaching. I am a shameful, shallow nobody. I don’t deserve to even live._ ”

The remainder of the video plays in the silence of his room. He had expected an ego-boost, more bragging, but instead his heart slowly drops into his stomach as the video nears its end of the feed.

Was this for real...?

“ _Investigation teams are looking into this now. Please stay tuned for more information...”_

\--

 **RYUJI.** dude. the news.

 **RYUJI.** kamoshida just spilled everything.

\--

Kamoshida Suguru is not so understandably pissed.

“I’m telling you I didn’t upload that damn video!” he snaps, but the vigor from earlier is gone, having been sapped from the news.

Niijima Sae’s patience is thin. She pinches the space between her eyebrows, onset of a migraine poking at the right side of her head. “I’m not asking whether you uploaded it or not. You are here because you’re under suspicion. If you have anything to testify against that video, then say it now, or I will have to assume the worst.”

He falls silent, eyes slamming to the table.

She counts four seconds. Five. Six.

Finally, “It’s fake.”

“How?” Sae counters.

He glares up at her. “I told you already: That’s not my video.”

“It’s on your feed, a file saved to your hard drive. It won’t take much for us to confront the students you mentioned in that video. With this, they have no reason for hiding,” her palm smacks against the table as she springs from her seat. “Quit stalling and give me the answer I need: Did you harm any of those students?”

A three-note knock against the door. Sae is just as surprised as Kamoshida.

“I’m busy right now,” she calls.

“I’m... well aware, Sae-san, but I believe I’ve found something that could help the case.”

She frowns, backing away from the table to pull the door open. It was unprofessional to delay an investigation, but they’re dangling a piece of strong evidence by the sounds of it. She folds her arms across her chest, frowning. “What is it?”

Akechi Goro, ‘High School Detective’ and with the skills to back up such a title, smiles pleasantly as he hands her a phone. “Just a little something I picked up from the front office,” he chuckles. “I thought it might help you.”

Sae blinks, taking the phone from him anyway. All the while, Akechi waits patiently. “Hello?”

“ _Hi, is this Niijima Sae?”_

“Yes. Who is this?”

A sigh of relief is breathed into the speaker. “ _Thank God, I thought I dialed the wrong number. O-Oh, I’m sorry, you asked who I was... sorry,_ ” they’re obviously a male, judging by their voice. “ _My name’s Mishima Yuuki. I’m calling to testify about Kamoshida Suguru._ ”

Over her shoulder, she notices Kamoshida leaning on his forearms, glaring at something only he could see.

“Very well then. What do you know?”


	6. Chapter 6

It is not unlike déjà vu.

Akira wakes to platforms of light sliding through his window, senses springing to life as if they’ve been burned. The mysterious world, that bizarre Kamoshida, Morgana talking, the _fox_ – it slams into him so hard he can feel the dizziness pricking at his mind, carving a space for an incoming migraine. His heart hammers against his ribcage and he twists his forearms—

—and the white bandaging stares back innocently. Akira traces the one on his left forearm cautiously, pulling at where the edge sticks up. He unwraps it hastily, wincing at the parts that have stubbornly sealed themselves to his skin. For as innocent as the bandages are, they are nothing compared to the faint scars that ghost his inner forearms.

There are too many questions that race through his mind. No signs of an injury aside from the light scarring that could very well blink from existence within a day or two. He sits, peeling off his shirt the instant he feels the constriction around his torso. More shock and confusion lance through him, trembling fingers running along more and more bandages, coiled tightly around the trunk of his body. His breath does not race out of him as it should, but the onset of panic is not far.

And his ankle...

Akira shudders. There is a bandage there too – not a cast. But he moves it, pushes and pulls his leg so his heel brushes against the mattress. The jolts of pain that should be present have long disappeared. Or maybe they were never there to begin.

He spots Morgana asleep on the futon. Just as innocent as his dressed wounds and unbroken ankle.

And that voice...

The silence of the attic drips on his shoulders. He searches with his mind, calls out into his conscious...

Nothing.

There was no way Morgana could have healed him... Then again, last night he had looked nothing _like_ a cat, talking as well as a person. It was still possible.

Akira shakes him gently. The look Morgana gives him is nothing short of offended. Except... what do you say to a talking cat?

“ _Mraw?_ ”

He frowns, drawing his hand back. “So I can’t understand you anymore...” Disappointment races alongside confusion. It would have been nice to find out the answers he needed. Perhaps Morgana senses the dejection because he butts his head against Akira’s hand, giving another meow.

And then his phone vibrates.

It’s still plugged in from last night, but now there are several notifications that light his screen. Two are from Ryuji, a third from Takamaki, another set says Kitagawa...

Akira taps on Kitagawa’s message, pulling up the remaining chunks of text. Their message from earlier is still present, and it seems his last message still hadn’t been sent...

**KITAGAWA.** ...am afraid I must return home. I have been absent for too long. Do not fear: we will meet again. I would still like to see Takamaki and meet your friend Sakamoto. But for now, this is good-bye.

**KITAGAWA.** Take care, Kurusu Akira.

He fumbles to send the message...

**AKIRA.** What did you do? **[DELETED]**

**AKIRA.** Kitagawa, where are you? **[DELETED]**

**AKIRA.** When can we meet? **[DELETED]**

An irritated groan presses from between his teeth, and he tosses his phone on the bed where it lands next to his shirt. He doubts Kitagawa would receive the message anyway. As much as he hates it, he readies himself for school, sparing the occasional glance at his phone for _anything_. Takamaki and Ryuji’s texts were still “unread”, but his mind is still tangled in the events of last night and now Kitagawa’s texts.

Unamused with Akira’s shift of attention, Morgana opts to roll over, belly up...

Wait.

_Morgana_.

He lets out a protest as Akira grabs him, running gentle fingers through the fur on his head, around his neck, feeling for anything broken by his chest—

Nothing.

Not even a lump to graze his fingertips.

“You too...”

Morgana squirms wildly. “ _Mraw!!_ ”

“Alright, alright, sorry...” Right. School. He still had that. The time is less generous, and he realizes that he’d need to formulate an excuse for Usami-sensei. With some stroke of luck, maybe Kawakami would cover for him, but she’d need to be willing to forgive yesterday’s ditching.

But that was highly unlikely.

He sets about undoing the rest of the wrappings, hoping it will distract him from the ensemble of messages, the pressing questions he needed to ask Kitagawa.

It doesn’t.

\--

“Whaat?” Ann is unable to refrain from giving him a look. “But wasn’t he your _roommate_? Didn’t he tell you anything?”

Kurusu says nothing, keeps his eyes to the floor.

She sighs heavily, leaning back on her hands. The rooftop is the last place she wants to be, but at Shujin, it was the only place where they could talk. There hadn’t been a lock on the door, nothing to keep them from prying them open with a little force, much to their shared relief.

Her phone hangs loosely in her grip. It wouldn’t do to check it every five seconds.

Shiho had yet to wake up.

“He didn’t return to Leblanc.”

Ann looks in his direction. “Kitagawa-kun?”

“I don’t know where he went,” he admits quietly.

The flowers sitting in the pots sway in the light breeze. She can’t recognize them by their petals and then she’s wondering why she’s working at a place like _Rafflesia_ when she can’t even differentiate from a caladium to a coleus. She recalls in the beginning how reluctant she was to work at a flower shop. Shiho was able to tell flowers apart instantly without the use of the Flowerpedia manual. But it was a little money to help her traveling parents.

(Or so she wanted to believe)

“Kitagawa kept to himself,” Kurusu continues. “I know as much as you do.”

And that alone was very little. “You know, I should just be grateful it’s finally over,” Ann mutters. “After months of enduring him, he’s finally gone. He can’t hurt the rest of the students. And yet...”

‘ _I’m still not satisfied. I want to know what happened._ ’

Because none of it made sense.

“For him to suddenly change like that... Doesn’t it just seem a little unnatural? That same day he caused Shiho to jump, broke Sakamoto’s leg, and then he just ups and _confesses_?” she clenches the corner of the desk. “I dreamt about it, you know. About turning him in, bringing him to justice. It all sounds kind of childish now... Just some silly fantasy my imagination created... I wanted to help Shiho, but in the end, I was just as powerless as everyone else.”

It hurt her head the more she thought about it.

“It’s frustrating how easy it all was,” the flowers look back at her quizzically. She still had to call Hanasaki-san that she needed time off. “Whatever Kitagawa-kun did was not normal, and I want to know _how_ he did it.”

All the abuse, the unwanted phone calls and texts that stretched on for what seemed to be forever. It all built up and amounted to something anticlimactic. In the end, it should have been _her_ to deal the final blow – to repay the favors Shiho did for her. A selfish wish just to play the hero, but sometimes she was a selfish person.

( _“Don’t be ungrateful, Ann. Didn’t you get everything you wanted for your birthday this year?”_

“ _But what I wanted was...”_ )

Ann couldn’t help but feeling robbed of something that could have been hers.

She truly was selfish.

The school bell rings in the distance. Their time is up, gone and swept out from under her feet, much like her unrealistic chance to have brought Kamoshida to justice.

_It was all a fantasy, it was impossible, it was just a stupid dream you made up because you were too much of a coward to do anything_...

She slips her bag over her shoulder, turning to Kurusu who stands as well. “Sorry, I guess I’m having a hard time believing it’s all over.”

The doors have closed behind them when she turns to face him. She’s not sure why, but the hesitance climbs in her throat, the confidence in her words dashed away as he gives her a puzzled look. “I should be thanking you as well.”

He blinks. Surprised. It’s odd to see such emotion on Kurusu’s face.

And it spurs her on. “For the other day, hearing me out. And you’re the reason Kitagawa-kun helped. I thought it was nuts at first, and I was a little surprised to hear that you told him about me... But I’m glad you did. So thank you.” She bows low at the waist, always at the waist, her mother had insisted, to show utmost gratitude. And she would do it again when she saw Kitagawa.

“You’re exaggerating,” Kurusu protests.

Ann insists, straightening herself from her bow, “Don’t be modest. You’re not so different from Kitagawa-kun." she doesn’t miss the unamused look that flits across his face. “Really though, if you need anything, I’ll do my best to help.” _To make up for not doing anything before._

Something softens in his neutral expression. If the surprise from earlier made him seem more human, then this alone shaved off another layer. “Thank you, Takamaki-san.”

“Hey, enough of that,” she allows herself to smile. It’s fine if it was for him and Shiho. “Just call me Ann, okay?”

Reluctance. And she realizes they haven’t exactly _done_ anything together to warrant first-name basis, but something told her if not for him, Kamoshida would still be running rampant. Compared to such a large feat, what were silly little courtesies? “Alright then... Ann.”

As they retreat to their homeroom, she realizes her name didn’t sound half bad on his lips.

\--

The anguish pinching the virtual Kamoshida’s face are so disgustingly uncharacteristic. To go from an arrogant predator to a death-seeking mess didn’t add up. Akira checks for the time of the video on the website, searches for an upload date. Shujin’s home page has successfully removed it from beneath the “Topics” subhead, shoving the video deeper into the archives. Why would they bother putting something that could tarnish their reputation on the front page?

To make up for all the torment he inflicted, he planned to kill himself. It was an easy way out – certainly not one he deserved.

“...And the weirdest part is they arrested him, right?” Ryuji says, frowning at the screen they shared. “But everyone’s sayin’ he didn’t make the video himself. ‘It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me’... Tch, what the hell you think he’s trying to do? It’s not like they’re going to believe a bunch of that bullshit.”

_The school did_. He nearly says. But after the video, physical _proof_ that Kamoshida was abusing his students... questionable proof, yes, but proof nonetheless, there was no way the law would take his side

( _Would they?_ )

and if they did, it would be their repercussions to face. Those that were not silenced by the higher ups would protest and rise to a temporary power strong enough to bring them to their knees.

He thinks to Takamaki— that is, Ann... and Kitagawa too.

That other world’s Kamoshida.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he begins, placing the phone by Ryuji’s wrist. “But my roommate may have had something to do with it.”

As expected, Ryuji is incredulous. “You mean the guy you hit with your car?”

“Kitagawa Yusuke,” Akira fills in, dodging the comment. _It was_ Sojiro’s _car,_ his mind quips childishly.

“Yeah, him,” Ryuji shrugs off. “You’re not making much sense... He ain’t from Shujin and you just met him.”

Kitagawa’s cryptic words recycle in her head, ricocheting off the walls of his mind. Change was supposed to occur in ‘a few days’, and yet Kitagawa managed to change everything in just the span of one. Unless there was something much larger in waiting. There’s an empty space where foreboding should be. The change had never been specified whether it would be ‘good’ or ‘bad’.

But that other world... He can’t just pretend that other Kamoshida didn’t exist, nor can he ignore the viciousness of that fox, the one that fought more like a wolf than the species it was supposed to be.

Morgana’s transformation was another issue to add to the plate. Maybe if he carried him back to that small shrine...

“Hey!” Ryuji’s voice is louder than the noise that had been blaring from the speakers. “You feelin’ alright?”

His shoulders lift in a shrug. There was no reason to not trust Ryuji with this information. Whether he believed or not wouldn’t erase it from his memory. And yet, the cast around his leg serves as the barrier he cannot overcome. To burden Ryuji with some supernatural world at a time like this would be cruel. “You’re not going to stay here?”

And like that, Ryuji’s mood dips – dejection, frustration... Akira sees it all in that one moment. “My mom’s already working two jobs,” his fingers touch the cast as if it would crack at the tiniest bit of pressure. “They’re gonna give me some pointers or something, but I don’t want to burden her...”

“You’re not a burden.”

Ryuji lets out a bitter, one note laugh. It’s hollow and quiet, nothing like the boisterous laughter that once spilled from his mouth. “Don’t worry ‘bout me. I’ll find a part time job when I can walk again, help mom pay off the insurance, then it’ll be just like old times. Just try to enjoy Shujin now that he’s gone.”

“Ryuji...”

“I mean it,” he cuts in. “Ain’t nothing you can do now. We should just be happy that bastard’s finally where he belongs.”

He was, and somewhere deep down, he knew Ryuji felt the same. But it was bogged down by the anger of suffering the abuse for months and months, the final nail in the coffin being the broken femur.

“This is all such bullshit...” Ryuji says quietly. “Doc said it’d heal, but I know what he really meant. Got my leg broken pretty fucking badly and now I won’t be able to run like I used to.”

(If only that fox could have torn into this Kamoshida like he had the other one. Not for the first time does Akira not care if something will be fixed. If it would cause suffering to Kamoshida like he had done to Ryuji, then maybe it was worth seeing.)

“I think I’ve run my last lap.”

And Akira’s there before the tears fall.

\--

It’s not the first time he’s been chased by a girl. But it is the first time he’s been chased by someone like Takamaki Ann.

The instant their eyes locked, he knew she had questions and she knew he had the answers.

Yusuke finds himself standing outside that flower shop, backed into a corner (quite literally) by Takamaki. There’s a lull in activity, giving her the chance to sneak away from her coworker and throw him in for an interrogation of her own. And Takamaki Ann is by no means an unattractive person. She is breathtaking in her own way with her unnatural hair color and eyes... though he supposes his hair isn’t all that natural either, but Takamaki was model material. He, on the other hand, was not.

She exhibited quite a bit of passion for someone once trapped beneath the heel of a perverted teacher.

“I’ll ask you again: How’d you do it?” she presses, and he’s at least a head or two taller than her, so it paints quite the unintimidating picture.

Takamaki’s sharp, he realizes. Or Kurusu told her everything he knew. He only wonders how many other students are confused by the sudden change of heart in Kamoshida Suguru. “Do what?” he asks innocently.

“You did something; don’t play dumb!” she counters. “Nobody flips on a dime like that. So what, you broke into his house and forced him to make a Youtube video?”

Such childishness. “That video was of his own volition.”

“Then what was with all the questions yesterday? Asking me for his background info and then asking if he hurt the other students?” Takamaki reels back just slightly. “I don’t need to know every little detail, but I do need to know what caused the change. Akira has a right to know too.”

And as she backs off, Yusuke straightens, a loose frown pinching at his brows. Interesting. The other day Kurusu was just as unfamiliar with Takamaki as he was. For whatever reason, it cuts further into his patience. “I find your ungratefulness astounding,” he finds himself saying, makes sure the words are cold enough.

Takamaki looks as if she’s been slapped. “ _What_?”

“Say I played a role in Kamoshida’s change of heart,” he continues. “What then? Do you intend to turn me into the news? Have me brought in for questioning?”

She looks genuinely offended. It’s difficult to not feel bad. But it was easier this way. Easier to push her away less she got hurt. And he would do the same to Kurusu the next time they met.

“Of course not... What would I have to gain from that?”

“Then why is this so important?”

“Because...” and he almost _sees_ her mind grasping for the words, to form the right answer. “It was over so easily, and you didn’t know Kamoshida. Why did you care so much for Sakamoto and Shiho? Was it because of Akira?”

He admits he rolled his eyes at that one. “Enough with these postulations. I understand your curiosity, Takamaki-san, but I insist you butt out of matters that don’t concern you.”

“Why? I don’t...”

“Because if you stick your nose in any further,” his face twists into a glare. Don’t let her get any closer, don’t let her in, _scare_ her away, just— “I will be forced to remove you myself. And I will do the same to Kurusu and any of your other friends if you try to involve them in this wild goose chase.”

There’s a beat of silence that is so thick he could very well poke a hole through it. And then Takamaki’s meeting him with a glare of her own. There was more to her than a pretty face, it seemed. There was a fire that burned within her, flames renewed by Kamoshida’s arrest. “Fine. If you’re going to be like that, then...” she drops her hands to her sides in exasperation. “I appreciate what you did for Shiho. But just so you know, she’s going to want an explanation too.”

Unspoken: _We all will._

And hopefully by then, Yusuke would be out of their lives. There was no point in him being there now, so why would he be there later?

(“Was that your boyfriend, Takamaki-san _?_ ” the lady at the flower shop asks once Takamaki has made some distance between them.

She scoffs – “As if.” – before ducking into the back of the shop.)

Rude.

But there was a truth lying there. They _would_ all want to know.

There’s a clutch of orange lilies nestled in one of the containers outside _Rafflesia_. He found it astounding, how something so beautiful stood for revenge. A subject worth painting, but the idea of bringing a lily back home would only uproot predictable and unseen consequences. It is not a risk he wishes to take, even if this very flower brought him the smallest bit of comfort.

Yusuke decides not to buy anything.

He doesn’t want to face the anger and disappointment in Takamaki’s eyes for a second time. Not when there was last person he needed to confront.

\--

Kamoshida Suguru does not live in a mansion. The condo is well furnished, a case of medals and other rewards sit against the wall adjacent to the T.V. Somewhere in the corner is the desktop and resting on its screen is a small camera. There are no signs of a struggle nor are there any bottles littering the floor. It’s almost impressive how clean this suspected predator keeps his living space.

It was just as fake and practiced as the profile picture on the Shujin Academy website.

Akechi Goro knows better than to trail fingerprints on surfaces that were unrelated to the search. It had been hammered into him during training and for every time he had been called out into the field. Niijima Sae had tasked him with the bedroom while she observed the more obvious suspect: the computer and the camera.

Kamoshida’s bed is made save for a few creases in the otherwise smooth blankets. How curious, he muses as he kneels by its side. Kamoshida Suguru never struck him as someone to tuck in sheets before heading out the door.

It’s not entirely spotless. He spots a few sneakers, one set belonging to the latest brand “for athletes”, a stack of otherwise questionable magazines, and a few suspicious sheets – 3x5 – in the mix. Gloves secured, he reaches for them.

Pictures. Depicting a girl.

Her back is turned, a volleyball in her hands. The one underneath is of the same girl, managing to capture her from a side view

(He wonders if she had noticed the picture being taken soon after the click of the camera sounded off)

and the last depicts her again, but not alone. There’s a girl about her age, blonde hair pulled into twin tails, smile on her face. In fact... (his eyes narrow suspiciously)... they’re _both_ smiling.

His mind traces back to the video as a reference. The names... There were three of them. One was male, the other two were female. One had their leg broken. Another jumped. The last one was the target of Kamoshida’s advances. That meant...

Suzui Shiho and Takamaki Ann. Which one was which, he could not confirm.

_Disgusting_ , he tosses the photos on the bed, suppressing the bile that threatens to crawl into his throat. There were some crimes that were too unforgiveable. The pieces from the video were coming together. He can deduce there was indeed a Suzui Shiho and Takamaki Ann involved in Kamoshida’s advances, that they had become victims. The confession had questionable phrasing and behavior, but it had been accurate.

Akechi paces to the right of the room, he moves to the left. There are no dirty magazines tucked in crevices and for what it was worth, it was rather clean. He still had no intention of searching without gloves – for professional and personal reasons.

To say the least, the crunching noise is startling.

Carefully, he tilts his foot to the side.

Akechi blinks.

There’s a small trail – how did he miss this? – of twigs and leaves peeking out from under the closet. His mind draws a blank as he pulls back the door to reveal nothing but t-shirts and a uniform pressed into the corner. It’s not a walk-in closet, but it’s big enough to squeeze in if he wanted

(not that there was a _reason_ to do so).

The trail of twigs twists sharply to the right... then stop.

A deliberate setup. Because twigs and leaves didn’t sprout from carpeting. Nor did they form little circles around Olympic medals at the bottom of someone’s closet.

“Akechi,” Sae calls from the doorway. “What did you find?”

She doesn’t wait for his answer, making way—

“What...?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Akechi admits, plucking up one of the leaves. There’s a strong scent, he realizes as he brings it to eye level. Its veins twist around one another as he briefly flashes it to the overhead light. An ordinary leaf, no fantastical message... he’s not sure what he was expecting.

Sae, her own hands clad in gloves of her own, takes it from him cautiously. She frowns, twirling it by the stem.

“Perhaps you should take a look at this too,” he says, crouching to gesture at the medal. “Although, does something seem off to you about these? Aside from them being arranged in a circle of course.”

“No,” she answers honestly. “It fails to give us answers by giving us more questions. We must have missed something.”

It certainly seemed that way. But he decides to pocket one of each once she departs, ready to face the necessary consequences.

Sticks and leaves didn’t belong in a bedroom.

He would have to investigate this alone.

\--

It was a miracle, the doctors said.

When she had been brought in, they had identified broken limbs and fractures, her upper body having suffered the brunt of it, and no TBI. A miracle, they had said, that she wouldn’t have to deal with long-term injuries, life ruining ones like Sakamoto Ryuji’s. Of course they never _said_ Sakamoto, but she knew, somehow, that he suffered terribly in the end.

For her sake. And the guilt alone hits her harder than the ground.

She had opened her eyes for the first time yesterday evening. A nurse had come in to check on her

(“ _I’m afraid she just missed you.”_

  
_“Who?”_

But she needn’t be told.)

before giving her much needed space. Shiho had still been light headed, the room sliding in and out of focus like the prisms of a kaleidoscope. She had leaned her head back against the pillow and...

...then what?

There’s nothing to do in an empty room. And yet, she can’t shake away the dream from the other night, if flashing images and voices could be _considered_ a dream. She remembers the image of Kamoshida that rippled like water as he approached her. She remembers the feeling of familiar helplessness with her back against the door. And finally, she recalls the young man with the blue hair and blue eyes, the one who came to stand between her and _him_.

She could not put a name to his face, and just as quickly as he had appeared, he vanished. When she awoke, she felt the flicker of relief, of being safe. Something happened in between the jump to now.

Somewhere in the folds of her sleep, Shiho heard a voice. A familiar voice that told her it would be okay, that they would be there for her when she awoke. She can’t recall what had been said, but it _was_ okay. Because that voice chased away the darkness swirling in the dustbowl of her mind. It gave her something to fight for.

Her phone is plugged into the wall, fully charged, and a few notifications. Why would there be more than three? Nobody had a need to text a girl suspended on the border between life and death.

...Even now, that dream still plagues her—

The door creaks on its hinges. “Shiho?”

She turns as best she can, alarmed, but not quite. Because she knew that same voice was belonged to the person who struggled to bring her to consciousness, who recounted fond memories before Kamoshida entered their lives. And she allows the smile to pull at her lips, the name slipping past the lump that suddenly blooms in her throat.

“Hi, Ann.”


	7. Chapter 7

“What’re you doing here?”

Takamaki stands in the doorway, twirling a lock of her hair around her index finger. She’s decked out in short shorts and a tank top, and if he was being honest, she’s cute... until she opened her mouth. But when Takamaki looks at him, he can’t bring himself to stay _too_ upset.

He _doesn’t_ want her, hell _anyone’s_ pity...

...But she gives it to him anyway, and it’s okay to drink it up every now and then. “Hey, I thought we could talk...”

“Okay...?” Ryuji blinks. “You gonna sit down or something?”

She does, pulling the chair over from where it rested on the other side of the room. “How’ve you been?”

“Well, it’s not like sayin’ anything’s gonna keep me here longer,” he glares at the white sheets of the room. White here, white there, there’s too much damn white – he’s getting tired of seeing it.

“Right...”

...

Ugh, this was too damn awkward. “What about you? You’ve been visitin’ Suzui-san?” Well, that didn’t help.

She crosses one leg over the other. “She woke up yesterday.”

Oh. “For real?”

“Yeah,” and Takamaki’s face seems to light up just slightly. “I mean they’re not letting her move around, but she’s okay. I’m just... so relieved. I was worried that she might not wake up, or...” her voice breaks off, and Ryuji notices it then. She won’t stop staring at his damn leg. He tugs the blanket over his lower body, and her gaze flits to his face. “Actually, I came here to apologize.”

“What for?” Ryuji mutters. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Well, not visiting you for one,” Takamaki starts. “and for what I said. You and Akira asked for help, and I couldn’t even do that. Instead I looked the other way, said you couldn’t do anything, but you were at least trying to help. You looked out for your teammates and Shiho too. I should have thanked you, not turned you away.”

She hadn’t been wrong.

In the end, he accomplished nothing and got a broken leg for his troubles. And then Kamoshida turns himself in. His timing could not have been more screwed up.

“I’m really sorry, Sakamoto, and I-I know saying it won’t fix anything—” Oh shit, was she starting to cry? “—but it’s not fair for you. Kamoshida treated you like shit, but in the end—”

“Ann, you don’t gotta apologize,” he cuts her off, formalities be damned. “Seriously, no chick-flick moments.”

She scrubs at her eye with the heel of her palm, a frown wavering despite the shining of tears. “I-It’s _not_! I mean what I said! You tried to help me and Shiho, and I did nothing in return—”

“Alright, alright,” he says, holding his hands up in defense. “But there’s not much we can do now. We should just be glad he’s finally where he belongs. It’s the only thing keeping me from losing my freaking mind being locked up here...”

There’s a delayed pause, and he begins wondering if he said the wrong thing, if he upset her further. Suddenly he’s wishing Akira was there

(where _was_ he anyway?)

because he’d at least know what to say.

Takamaki- or was it Ann? She hadn’t _said_ anything about his slipup, so – lowers her gaze to the bed. He can practically feel it boring through the blanket, staring directly at the cast. “Hey, so you saw the video too, right?”

“Yep. And I’d watch it again and again if I could.”

“Well... Is it alright if I tell you something a little crazy?”

“I’m sure whatever you think is crazy is nothing compared to what I saw,” Ryuji sighs. It was strange though. For as long as the eyes haunted him, he began seeing them less and less in his dreams. “But yeah, whaddya got?”

Ann returns to fiddling with her hair, eyes slightly puffy and red. She’s doing that a _lot,_ he realizes. “Do you know anything about Akira’s roommate?”

“Oh, you mean the guy he steamrolled?”

Her fingers cease their movements, eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. “Steamrolled? You mean he _hit_ him?”

“Yeah, ya know what steamroll means right? Just... ran him over.”

“What the hell—?”

“Anyway, not important. You were saying?”

“What do you mean ‘not important’? I-Is he okay?”

“I don’t know, why’re you asking me?! I ain’t the one livin’ with him!”

“Urgh, we’re getting off topic!” she huffs, foot stomping against the ground as she leans forward. “Anyway, is it hard to believe that he had something to do with Kamoshida getting arrested?”

Ryuji blinks at her. She blinks back. “Uh, kinda? He’s just some guy living with Akira. What’s he got to do with Kamoshida?”

“Before that video got leaked, he asked me some things—”

“—Like a date—?”

“—Stop. It. He just wanted all this information about Kamoshida and his victims. I thought he was just curious, but then I saw him at my job. He was hiding something. He told me not to get involved, that I should just be happy Kamoshida’s no longer in Shujin,” she pauses. “He didn’t... threaten me, but he wasn’t exactly pleasant either. I’m wondering if I should talk to Akira. Maybe he’ll know something.”

(‘ _He may have had something to do with it._ ’)

The video, Kamoshida _crying_ , calling himself worthless and name-dropping students... First Akira and now Ann – they were saying the exact same thing. “I mean...” he hesitates. “Maybe he was some sort of detective.”

Ann raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You mean like Akechi Goro?”

“Akechi-who?”

“Never mind... He didn’t seem like one though.”

Another bout of silence. It’s the longest he’s talked with Ann since they were preteens, the longest they’ve gone without exchanging words that would purposefully cut into their feelings.

“You were right though,” he says, leaning back. “I couldn’t do anything.”

Ann’s shoulders slump. “Ryuji...”

“None of us could, but somebody did. I mean there ain’t a whole lot we can do about it now. But for all the shit he pulled, kinda wish I got to see what made him change.”

With an ego so large, he can’t imagine Kamoshida being intimidated by anyone, let alone a student their age.

In the end, all Ann does is sigh. “Me too…”

Ryuji says nothing.

\--

Morgana is terribly fussy that afternoon, crammed in the tight space of Akira’s bag. But for all the twisting and squirming, Akira pays him no mind. The altar is bare save for one idol of a fox donning a piece of red cloth around its neck. There are no other offerings, and he plucks it up, hoping for a trigger or something, a brief flash into the other world. Clamped in its muzzle is a stone sheaf of rice. It was carefully carved, but physical appeal meant little if it couldn’t solve the problem.

Akira lays his bag on the ground, unzipping it enough for Morgana to poke his head out. He takes in his surroundings instantly, head whipping left and right before they lock eyes. “Mraw?”

“What do you think?” he shows him the idol, probably coming off as some weird-ass to anybody who happened to pass by. Not that it was an issue; there were very few people who walked this path. And there’s no point speaking to Morgana in this world either.

“I think you shouldn’t tamper with the altar,” Kitagawa’s voice is indistinguishable. Akira is still surprised anyway. “It’s disrespectful to both the gods and the person who gave the offering.”

Morgana looks up as Akira stands. The questions resurface and yet he can never find his voice when he needs it. He wants to thank him, jump straight to the point, let him explain.

And Kitagawa picks up on it. “I haven’t forgotten my promise,” he says, pausing to look at their surroundings. “This isn’t a good place to talk.”

Akira slides the idol back onto the altar while Kitagawa’s gaze is averted. He wonders if moving it would affect the prayer. “Leblanc’s still open.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Come. Return Morgana to the café and meet me at the train station. I’ve already thought of the destination. Oh, and it may benefit you to have 2000 in yen.”

He knows better than to argue with Kitagawa when his mind was set on something. Pushing aside burning curiosity, he carefully tucks Morgana back inside the bag, blocking out the meow of protest. Kitagawa doesn’t pause in front of Leblanc’s doors, walking on as if it were just another plain building with little to no significance. Akira’s gaze follows him as he turns the corner before he enters Leblanc.

Sojiro’s too busy with the curry pot to say anything, so he makes way for the stairs. Morgana wastes little to no time leaping into his room the minute the zipper is tugged back. He watches Akira as he leafs through the yen bills in his wallet. He’s coming up 500 yen short thanks to the shopping escapade and the café trip with Ann.

...He _could_ ask Sojiro.

Akira contemplates this with each step until he’s by the cash register...

No. It wasn’t worth it.

He steps outside, rays of the afternoon sunning fanning down on him as he hurries for the cover of the train station. Kitagawa’s not difficult to find, waiting for him by platform 6 and 7. It’s then he notices Kitagawa’s sporting a dark shoulder bag that looked more like the type managers wear rather than students. For someone so frugal, he certainly preferred professional appliances over casual... What could he possibly be carrying?

“I would like to visit Ueno,” Kitagawa says as they step into the cart. “Specifically the art museum.” (Ah, perhaps it was another unfortunate sketchbook soon to meet its demise.) “I’m glad I discovered some leftover yen back home. I heard they were raising entrance fees.”

“Were you able to find what you were looking for?”

The scenery outside the window blitzes by in time with the chugging of the wheels against the tracks. Kitagawa looks anyway. “Not quite, but it’s easier for me to concentrate at a museum than it is most other places. It will give us a chance to talk as well.”

Akira frowns, gripping the handlebar that dangles from the ceiling like a noose. “It may be crowded.”

“Trust me,” Kitagawa says.

He had. The first time. And it worked out, leaving a concave of confusion in its wake. But he could endure a little more confusion. Besides, it’s not as if Kitagawa was going to be gift-wrapping answers. From what little he knew, he’d probably have a riddle or two for Akira to decipher.

But he says nothing, waiting out the rest of the train ride to Shibuya, navigating through Ueno after switching to a new train line. Kitagawa is in no mood to talk, preferring to gaze out the window or stare at some interesting spot on the floor leftover by someone’s food. It was fine. Everything he can say to Kitagawa has already been said with the he things he _wants_ to say are best left when it was just the two of them.

He’s ashamed to say he’s never visited Ueno before this.

The art museum itself boasts a giant metal sculpture at the top of the stairs. Shouldered on both sides of the walkway are two buildings made entirely of brick with ceiling to floor windows. And really, he’s no artist, but the architecture of the buildings, that awkward placement of that random ball, it... it...

“It looks like a prison,” he deadpans.

Kitagawa blinks at him. “What?”

“A prison,” he repeats, feet dragging to a halt.

“But... it’s an art museum.”

Akira feels a rush of guilt at Kitagawa’s genuine bewilderment. The interior felt like the textbook description of a museum with its portraits, models, and the nameplates under or adjacent to each piece. “Why don’t you lead the way?” he offers, hoping to diffuse any sparks of a rising argument. “You know this place better than I do.”

They pay at the front desk before Kitagawa leads them to the second floor. Akira is unable to put a name to it, but the surrounding projects all have a similar theme. And dare he say, some appeared mediocre. It’s odd. He always thought museums depicted professional art, not paintings done by students of various levels. But he stops pondering about it, coming to lean against the bar of the balcony, next to Kitagawa. There’s a painting at every interval on each face of wall, ceasing only at the entranceway to a separate room.

Visitors exam one piece to the next, some hovering longer than others. They’re a fair distance from the stairs, but he doesn’t understand why they’re stopping in a place where _everyone_ can see...

“Kamoshida’s arrest was not brought on by natural means,” Akira looks up in alarm, but Kitagawa’s gaze is focused on the painting across from them. It’s a pond, careful detail put into the lone lily pad that sits about three quarters into the frame. “Thanks to Takamaki-san and you, I was able to gather enough evidence. Without it, I would have taken longer to complete my task.”

The people that walk within earshot are too absorbed to truly listen. He swallows, venturing cautiously in the paused breath clinging to Kitagawa’s words. “Three nights ago, I saw something strange. Morgana brought me to the shrine down the street from Leblanc, and it...” _took me to another world? knocked me out?_

“I know,” Kitagawa cuts in. “He was supposed to warn you, not lead you through a gateway.”

“Wait,” he pushes away from the railing, feeling as if the ground may very well collapse from under him. “You’re playing me for a fool. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

And Kitagawa smirks, the same cocky sneer Akira had the honor of seeing the night they met. It’s not as annoying this time. “Change cannot occur without a few catalysts. Evidence is one, diving into that other world is another,” he frowns just slightly, folding his arms across his chest. “You saw something you weren’t meant to see, Kurusu, stepping into a place you have no business being in. Didn’t I tell you I would handle it?”

“You really expected me to just sit on my hands and do nothing?” Akira snaps. “I wanted answers—”

“—And I promised I’d give you them, had I not?” he begins walking away, and it isn’t until Akira notices the pair of adults staring at them does he catch on. Akira follows in step besides Kitagawa. “The Kamoshida of that world was a demon. He is not the only one in existence – there are many more. But he does have some influence over the Kamoshida of this world.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, keeping his gaze lowered.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Kitagawa sighs. “It’d be better if you didn’t. As of now, I am regretting having to tell you all of this.”

Akira gives him a look. “You didn’t have to.”

“It was something I was willing to do until you decided to poke your nose into my business,” he counters, scowling. “Kamoshida Suguru confessed to the news, uploaded a video where everyone could see, yet he played innocent when they came to arrest him. What do you think caused that?”

No matter what world, Kamoshida was still Kamoshida. A threat to students and his peers alike. “Is it possible for demons to cross to our world?”

Kitagawa shakes his head. “If you’re thinking he created the video, then you’re wrong. While it is true demons have a connection to certain humans, they cannot act as a living conscious here. To successfully cut the ties between a demon and its person, one must corner it in the other world. This way, the human is unable to draw from its power. It’s always safe to cut off ties with other beings, less it corrupts them. Humans think they’re unstoppable. Give them a little power to drink from, and they will consume the entire cup the minute it touches their lips.”

(“ _There was something in his eyes. It don’t make sense to me either, but they just looked weird...”)_

His mouth feels dry. “What did you do, Kitagawa?”

The bakeneko that was Morgana... The demon Kamoshida... The fox... The emptiness he felt in that other world...

“I took care of your problem,” he says. “By praying to a Shinto Goddess.”

Oh.

Well, that made complete sense.

“We should be leaving soon. It’s getting rather crowded.”

...That was it?

Kitagawa gives him an odd look as they exit the museum. What a waste of 1300 yen. “Is there something the matter?”

“You’re insane...” the words fall from his mouth unbidden. He exhales heavily, adjusting his glasses “But maybe I’m not so different.”

“Then let us be insane together.”

No one would believe them. And had he not stumbled into that world, he wouldn’t believe Kitagawa either. But in the end, Kitagawa had done him— _them –_ a huge favor. He knows better than to tell Ryuji and Ann. Falling into ‘insanity’ with Kitagawa... Hm. It should be ironic, but Akira can’t bring himself to mind.

His lips pull into a small smirk as he shakes his head. Kitagawa was something else. How bad could it be? ...And then he’s nearly stumbling over his own feet, trying to regain balance after somebody bumps into him. He’s used to getting shoved, but that one _smarts_ —

“Excuse you,” Kitagawa quips.

The perpetrator turns to face them, his red eyes wide at having been called out. Brown hair and red eyes. He sports a beige coat, dark pants, a neck tie... What kid _dressed_ like that? “I- I apologize. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Akira says, hoping it’s enough to quell Kitagawa’s next set of choice words.

“No, I mean it,” he insists. “Hm... Have we met before?”

He exchanges a look with Kitagawa. His mind sorts through files, through the blurred faces that belonged to the bodies that walked back and forth in Shujin’s hallways, to the clutch of random people on the train platforms... Akira shakes his head.

“Strange. I thought I recognized you at the café in Yongen-Jaya.”

“Leblanc?” Kitagawa chips in.

“Ah, that’s right!” he says, smiling. Akira’s instantly reminded of Ann’s fake smiles, the ones she’d wear for her audience. “Oh, how rude of me. I haven’t yet introduced myself. I’m Akechi Goro. And you two?”

Huh... “Kurusu Akira,” he finds himself saying. “Second year at Shujin Academy.”

“I’m Kitagawa Yusuke,” Kitagawa adds hastily. “Now, if you’ll excuse us—”

“Just a minute- did you say ‘Shujin’?”

He nods.

And Akechi chuckles softly, “What a chance encounter. I am currently looking into the arrest of Kamoshida Suguru. I’m sure you saw the video that was posted on the website. I began wondering if any of Shujin’s students could confirm its reliability. From what I’ve gathered, Kamoshida is a prideful man, so for him to break down and create such a scene seems uncharacteristic, does it not?”

“Maybe he was set up,” Akira supplies, and it comes out so unsure he almost gags.

“Set up?” Akechi echoes. “Hm... Interesting, but we can’t determine if there was someone pulling the strings. Tell me, Kurusu-kun: Are you aware of the train accident in Shibuya from a week back? They took the driver in for questioning, but there was nothing he could tell them. It was as if the events of the crash had been erased from his mind. I have to wonder if the thing that caused his shutdown is connected to Kamoshida. After all, Kamoshida can’t recall making that video much like the conductor can’t remember injuring hundreds of people.”

Sojiro always kept the TV running when Leblanc was open. Akira seldom paid attention to the news, but he did overhear something about a crash, how the news spun a web of lies to make the truth more appealing to the masses. Lost control, saw something on the tracks... He’s heard at least one version while passing from the front of the café to the attic.

He’s not, however, familiar with the term ‘shutdown’.

“And why does this matter to you?” Kitagawa says sternly, voice but a murmur against white noise.

“Hm?” Akechi hums. “Would you repeat that?”

“Why are they making you investigate into a case that’s been solved?” Kitagawa continues, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. Defensive, an unspoken warning for Akechi to stay away. “Kamoshida’s video implies he’s been targeting students for months. Say the cause was a shutdown. As catastrophic as it may be, it accomplished a year’s case in a single day. On the other hand, you have the police force who turned as much a blind eye to their students as the teachers did.”

Kitagawa is successful in drawing Akechi’s attention solely to himself. There’s a flicker of annoyance in Akechi’s eyes, but Akira can’t say it seems _entirely_ out of place. Something about the questions and the demeanor screamed at him to not lower his guard.

Or maybe that was the feeling he was getting from Kitagawa’s not-so-subtle glance in his direction.

“But for something to effect one’s way of thinking... Can that truly count as a confession? The evidence is there, but it must be logical in the face of the court. Otherwise, it is no different than a civilian giving false accusations.”

“Those accusations were not false,” Kitagawa counters. “There were three names mentioned in the video. Do not doubt them. I believe they will step forward, seeking justice against the man that has made their lives a living hell.”

Akira glimpses the bleaching of Kitagawa’s knuckles when his fingers dig into the shoulder strap. The evidence lied beneath the surface, buried between lies made to satiate the sanity of the public’s mind. There were no such things as demons or monsters – those were confined to the storybooks read to intimidate the innocent hearts of young childAkira.

Insane together.

That’s how it was going to be.

He signed the contract that very night.

“Well, you appear to have strong belief in those students. I wonder what it is you see in them,” Akechi roots around in his pocket, fishing out his phone. High tech, polished... Probably a new model to match his polished appearance. “Apologies for wasting your time. I hope to see you both again. It’s not often I get to have such interesting debates about the human conscience.” He turns to Akira, who’s half expecting him to whip out a business card at this point. “I’ll have to revisit Leblanc one day so we can continue our discussion. And I’d appreciate it if you could join us, Kitagawa-kun; you’re quite a unique pair.” Akechi lifts a hand in departure. “Take care.”

It raises more questions when Akechi retreats towards the museum. Had he been hoping to find more information on the Kamoshida incident? Maybe he intended to corner someone less willing to argue.

Kitagawa follows him as they backtrack, jaw set tight with eyes hard as stone. Somehow Akira can pick out the clapping of Kitagawa’s footfalls against the cobble above the others. A short glance back confirms he’s not walking strangely... How odd.

“What arrogance,” Kitagawa mutters. “There are differences between a change of heart and a forced shutdown.”

Akira sighs, “Don’t let him get to you.” The steady beat of Kitagawa’s footsteps still, and he turns.

“I’m feeling rather peckish. Now that I think about it, I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning.”

“Do you want to see if there’s something on Ameyoko street?” Akira offers, shoving aside the shock of Kitagawa’s confession. Yesterday. Really? Just what on earth did Kitagawa do that he forgot to eat? There was no way art could have been that much of a distraction – even for someone as odd as him.

Kitagawa shakes his head, taking a step forward. “I don’t have enough money; I spent it all on the museum.” The museum trip that hadn’t even lasted 30 minutes let alone an hour. “Don’t worry. However, there’s one more thing I would like to show you before we go our separate ways.”

In a typical Kitagawa fashion, he does not wait for an answer, merging back into the crowd. It was still early, so if he was lucky, he could return to Shibuya and stop by the hospital. Maybe Kitagawa would go with him – he had yet to meet Ryuji.

And yet, despite his advice to Kitagawa earlier, Akira finds his mind drifting back to Akechi Goro. The specific questions, the mention of shutdowns and pondering if there had been some connection... The foreboding he felt churning in his stomach at the sight of Kamoshida spins to life again. He hardly knew Akechi, yet he had been rather persistent, intent on cracking some case that had more to it than the physical evidence shown.

Be careful, something warns him, he was not an ally.

Akira does not doubt this had been their last meeting.

The mask he wore was tighter than Ann’s and his own, slipping just slight at Kitagawa’s counter. Beneath had been irritation, a warning to not be too close. Kitagawa did not trust Akechi – and neither did Akira.

But Kitagawa had a _reason_ to distrust him, for whatever lay beneath those layers of ambiguity. Akira was just paranoid. That’s what it came down to: some psychological, mistrustful parasite that dug and made itself at home in his brain the minute Akechi began speaking to him.

At first, he doesn’t pay any mind to the subtle changes in their surroundings, the twists and turns they make in the road. Yet he finds his feet drawing to a halt at the foot of the stairs leading to Suribachi-yama. Shrines and spirits were often associated with the dead, with their tombs. There were people who dedicated their whole life to researching the complexities of another side. But not once had they ever mentioned demons or yokai.

If he were to visit the resting place at the top of Suribachi, would he be able to glimpse back at the other world? Did graves themselves serve as portals to another world? The writing on their tombstones some sacred mantra that spurred them awake?

Everything sounded so... fake.

A fabricated tale for a fabricated world.

Words exchanged from one person to another, sealing them in an intangible wax his fingers could not peel from the parchment, making them seem like a duo of stupid kids who got off on making up stories to cause more complication to an already complicated case.

The faint scars scraped into his skin tingle, and he rubs at his forearms to dull their shudders. He can’t write any of it off as a dream. He can’t tell anyone. But he was one less crazy person to Kitagawa.

(...He wonders if it’d be worth detailing the events of Ryuji’s fight with Kamoshida...)

Akira backs away from the steps, the allure to visit the tomb and satiate his own curiosity drained by the memory of Ryuji. It wouldn’t fix the damage to the busted leg, that was for sure. Perhaps it was destined to become trivial information. He doesn’t doubt Kitagawa wouldn’t bat an eye at the mention of “demon” Kamoshida flickering into “real” Kamoshida. He’s probably seen it all.

Kitagawa is indistinguishable from the blue hair down to his outfit

(and the overly professional shoulder bag)

but so is the man that is with him.

It’s the first time he’s seen Kitagawa look so... worried? Frightened? He finds it very unsettling, an expression twisting Kitagawa’s face that should not belong.

The man is thrice their age, well into the latter cusp of his life with gray hair and wrinkled skin. He’s donned in traditional Japanese garb down to his shoes. His voice camouflages into the sound of the wind brushing through the trees, falling under the babbling of footsteps and casual conversation. Some stop to observe the scene, stare a while, exchange words, then leave.

And he is no better than them, standing with hands at his sides.

“...I’m working on it,” Kitagawa says, eyes anywhere but the old man’s face. “I will have it done in time.”

“Judging from your progress, I have to disagree. I allow you to leave out of the goodness of my heart, believed that you were following your inspiration, and here you are a week later,” he sighs, reaching for his arm. “Enough of this. You’re returning to the atelier tonight.”

Kitagawa pulls back with a shake of the head, fist drawing to his chest protectively. “I only ask that you trust me, sensei. I promise, I—”

“Your ungratefulness is astounding,” and Kitagawa’s ‘sensei’ drops the façade, eyes narrowed and lips tight. “Doing as your told is all a part of repayment, but it seems our little shack isn’t enough to satisfy you. I understand we all need a change of scenery, but this is all to advance _your_ future, Yusuke. All I ask is for you to pull your share.”

“Please, that’s not what I’m saying—”

Whether it’s the sweetly poisoned words of this supposed teacher or Kitagawa’s growing discomfort, Akira does not know.

But he can’t watch this anymore.

“Yusuke,” he says, and Kitagawa whips around, shock lighting up his face. “There you are. Come on, everyone’s looking for you.” and he allows himself to look at the old man. Remember: Honorifics, politeness, _don’t be rude, don’t ruin this like you always do_. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we’re running late.”

Kitagawa’s sensei is just as surprised, mouth ajar as he glances from one to the other. “I...” he trails off, frowning as he brings his forearm closer to his face. The sleeve of the yukata slides to reveal a black strap – a watch, his mind cuts in. “I... suppose that’s fine. I’ve run out of time myself,” he adjusts himself, brushing the fabric back in place. “I was unaware you had friends, Yusuke. The students from Kosei seemed to be far more invested in their studies and art than making friends. It might not hurt for you to do the same.”

“I’m not from Kosei,” Akira corrects, stuffing his hands into his pockets as they tighten into fists. “And Yusuke’s quite serious. We’re usually the ones that have to pull him away from studies.” he gently nudges Yusuke’s arm with his elbow. “Let’s go.”

“Well... enjoy yourselves then,” he says reluctantly. “I still want you back home when this is all over. There are some things we still need to discuss.”

He lets him feet carry him a few steps away, checking back over his shoulder to make sure Kitagawa is following. They’re backtracking, passing the signs of Suribachi, and Akira doesn’t turn to see where Kitagawa’s sensei has wandered off to.

Kamoshida had been no different, twisting the meaning of such malleable words, creating a jagged trap that was meant to claw anyone who stepped too close. They had been cut from the same cloth.

“Thank you, Kurusu,” Kitagawa says.

The very air itself stops to listen, ceasing its laps through the grass, through the branches.

“Don’t mention it.”

“He’s my teacher,” he starts, and he just looks so _tired_. “Well, I suppose he’s more than that. It’s a rather complicated story that I don’t wear with pride,” a pause. “Surely you must have recognized him though.”

Akira shakes his head, the sole of his shoe scraping against the cobble.

“Oh. I must admit that surprises me,” Kitagawa’s eyes flit to something in the distance. “I’ll explain along the way; it seems we took a wrong turn.”

Somehow, they end up walking side-by-side. But it’s okay this time. There is no need to follow behind.

“Madarame Ichiryusai. I’ve known him for a good portion of my life,” he says. “Things weren’t always so strained between us, but as time grew on, so did our relationship. What was once peaceful shattered the minute he became tempted with money and fame. I suppose I am still indebted to him for the kindness he showed, and yet...”

“It’s no longer a debt if he’s holding favors over your head,” Akira mutters. And he knows it’s wrong to ask something so insensitive, but he does it anyway: “Is he a friend of your parents? Is that why you’re still with him?”

Kitagawa pauses, something conflicted pinching his brows together. Akira feels the apology bubbling on his tongue by the time Kitagawa finds his voice again. “They were acquaintances, yes. But given that they’re no longer here, the depth of their relationship matters little to me,” Kitagawa’s voice is vapid, so unlike the emotion and passion he put into each sentence. “My situation is not that simple, and I’d appreciate if we discussed other matters.” the unique beating of his feet against the ground cease as the row of vermillion _torii_ breach their line of sight. “Besides, we’re here.”

‘ _What’s that supposed to mean?_ ’ Akira wants to say, but he puts it aside for now.

It’s another shrine, but unlike the tiny altar in Yongen, this is much larger, a mimic of Fushimi Inari-taisha in Kyoto. He supposes for a city dweller, this is the closest they will ever get to Kyoto’s infamous shrine. And for what it’s worth, as they walk down the path with the sun glinting off the polished red wood, it is just as peaceful and quiet.

It was like entering another realm. People knew when to silence their voices, speak in hushed tones as they prayed to the gods and goddesses for fortune or health. Nature herself held her breath as she tended to all things living beyond the gates.

The shrine itself is as traditional as he expects. There’s shimenawa tangled from one post to another, a red table sitting at the center of the altar. Two stone statues of foxes sat outside the entrance, their heads turned to face their visitors. A cloth of gold and white had been tied around the necks. Aside from the two blue lampposts, the entire shrine was shrouded by brush and trees.

A stereotypical depiction of a shrine by textbook standards.

“Will you pray?” Kitagawa asks.

He blinks. “Do you want me to?”

“It’s not a matter of what I want,” and he begins walking away, veering to the left. There’s a passage, he realizes, tucked between the greenery and wooden walls of the shrine. “Prayers are not as complicated as they are made out to be. People usually give offerings in the form of money, but sometimes they will leave other gifts depending on their god.”

Red paper lamps sit perched beneath the eaves of the wooden roof, warm buttery light twinkling like captured stars. The passage way is cold, but as they turn the corner, it is not so difficult to shrug off the cold. A part of the stone wall concaves to form a hollow the size of a window. Beneath it is a a wooden shelf supporting a small statue of a fox and a lamp. Seated on a throne of rock at the center of the room is an altar quite like the one outside. A small wrap of _shimenawa_ hangs from the equally small _torii_. Light from outside streams from the strip of window behind the roof of the altar.

Kitagawa’s eyes are closed, hands clasped in prayer as he stands before the shrine. Akira has never felt so out of place – and he’s only with _one person_. He never believed, had never been raised on the stories of old or given prayers to some higher up.

But it was rude to just stare at Kitagawa like that.

A handful of seconds drip by, growing into a minute... two minutes—

“You’re quite interesting, Kurusu,” Kitagawa says. “To spin a lie to my sensei is rather brave of you – and all for my sake no less.”

Akira shakes his head. “It wasn’t anything. Really.”

But Kitagawa continues anyway. “I did promise you more answers, which is exactly why we’re here. I admit though: It was quite unusual hearing you say my first name like that.”

_Now_ he looks. Kitagawa isn’t sneering at him like he usually did. It wasn’t a genuine smile either, but his expression was softer, the familiar lines of a frown sanded down or otherwise entirely erased. If Kitagawa looked like this more often, maybe he’d be less obnoxious.

“Consider this my thank you as well.”

Akira’s breath seizes in his throat as he towers over him. “Kitagawa...?”

A smirk, as always. “It’s Yusuke, Kurusu.”

And he too winks out of existence the minute Yusuke’s cold finger brushes against his forehead.

\--

It’s the hardness of the ground or the uncomfortable position he’s in that stirs him awake. Slumped against the rock throne of the altar, Akira pulls himself to his feet. The cold air of the cave bites twice as hard while he stumbles around the small space. He carries himself to the exit, growing alert as his senses crawl back to life at the command from his brain.

Mist crawls lazily atop the ground, obscuring the far distance of his line of sight, blotting out what should be a blue sky. The atmosphere of the other world had not changed since his last visit.

Where was Ki— Yusuke...?

His feet halt before the large shrine. There’s an eerie quiet that settles on his shoulders like a cloak, blotting out even the gossip of the mist as it rolls around itself again and again.

A world dedicated to the creatures in a storybook.

“So he knocks me out and then leaves...?”

No.

Yusuke wouldn’t do that.

( _But where is he then?_ )

He had no reason to.

The statues of the fox watch him carefully, analyzing each inhale and exhale as he walks closer to the red table in the altar. And he blinks. Earlier, there had been nothing upon its surface. But now, he counts at least a handful of 100 yen coins, a bundle of sheaf rice, three packages of inarizushi with the price sticker still glued to their clear surface, an expensive bottle of sake...

...Were these real?

Even more important: Did it matter?

Gripping his arms, he backs away from the altar. Nothing was his to take, and he feared what type of punishment lie in wait if he stuffed his pockets with a coin or two.

He hadn’t been anticipating the fox.

Pure white fur like spun silk, black paws and black-tipped ears, a bushel of tails fanning out like the plumes of a peacock, a _shimenawa_ tied around the center tail... Its eyes are just as cold as they were that first night, but its muzzle does not pull back to reveal the sharp, dagger-like teeth. He feels a twinge of apprehension as it rises on all fours.

The footsteps are a steady beat, a tempo that is its own.

“Have you finally come to?” the sound does not spill from its mouth, but it does not quite beat against the door of his mind either. Telepathy was impossible... so was a talking fox. “You shouldn’t be here long. The fragility of a human heart cannot adapt to the pressure of this type of environment.”

Akira doesn’t feel the pressure. There’s no heavy weight that constricts his lungs or hangs around his heart like stones around someone’s neck. He swallows, walking closer. The fox goes up to his abdomen, but the tails make it seem much larger. He can almost hear the way the tracks click into place, the way the pieces slide together. “I know you...” he murmurs. “But is it really—?”

“I’m grateful you haven’t forgotten, but I’d expect nothing less from you,” it says. “Most trespassers remember bits and pieces from their human lives, yet you seem to retain all of your memories.”

He remembers. Was it even possible to forget everything he’d ever known? Memories couldn’t be erased so easily – spiritual world or not. “Yusuke...?”

An ear twitches in acknowledgement.

Akira blinks, words swiped from his very breath. “It was you,” he says, numb. “You were the one that saved Morgana.”

And if he looks closer, he could see it. He’s not looking into the face of a human, but all it takes is the eyes to know, the very eyes that would look at him with disdain or amusement, or how they would become so focused as he worked on a sketch. Without a doubt, it’s Yusuke.

“I suppose I should ask if you have any questions,” he says, padding over to the table lined with offerings.

“You’re a fox.” Akira says lamely.

“Kitsune,” Yusuke corrects, tail flicking as it glides against Akira’s waist.

“How though?”

He nudges one of the packs of inarizushi with his snout. “Through one of my parents. I do not know all the details myself, but it is something I inherited,” he looks over at Akira with a face that is definitely Yusuke’s. “It’s not a form I am comfortable with showing to people on the other side. The amount of scandal it would cause is not worth the reveal.”

So his cat was a monster, and his friend was a fox spirit?

That made sense.

But it did. In the strangest way, it began tying the loose ends regarding the Kamoshida case.

A flurry of teeth as Yusuke had attacked Kamoshida, ripping through demonic skin like tissue, snarls spilling from his throat. The fear he had felt when Yusuke attacked again and again and again. “You killed him then. That other Kamoshida.”

Yusuke turns, gaze sliding to the ground. “I attacked his demon, yes. The plan was to bring him to Inari, but when he started attacking you both...”

“Inari?”

“The Goddess,” Yusuke says, as if it were obvious. “I am one of her messengers. It is something I have been doing for... well, a while,” his muzzle twists into a snarl. “The sins committed by that man – by Kamoshida – are unforgiveable. He borrowed the power of a demon and allowed it to consume him. By attacking his demon, I cut off the connection between it and the real Kamoshida.”

His head’s spinning, worse than it had back at the museum. Maybe this was the pressure that Yusuke was talking about. Akira realizes he’s dipped into a world that a human had no business being in. He can’t fight back the worry that pricks at his mind. One trip to the spirit world and then another not too long after... Surely there were consequences for such actions.

“...If you wish, we can return,” he offers, steering towards the passage that held the miniature shrine. “I brought you here so you could witness physical proof. It’s also easier to talk about this world here than it is in yours.”

Akira shakes his head. “I just...” he swallows again. “I still don’t understand how this connects to the video.”

And Yusuke just _laughs_ , a peal of laughter just spilling from… well, his mouth wasn’t exactly open – how _was_ he talking anyway? – and tails wagging in a manner not unlike dogs. “Perhaps you’d like a demonstration then. The reason I was gathering information—” and Akira blinks hard as Yusuke stalks forward, body dissolving as he _changes_ , turning into something “—was not only to track down the demon. I needed it to make sure the illusion was perfect.”

Kamoshida stares down at him, wearing the usual dark pants and white shirt. But it’s not, because Kamoshida never looked at Akira that way.

“Do you understand now?” it sounds like Kamoshida, but it speaks like Yusuke; it was undeniably creepy. “There was no way for Kamoshida to confess. The grip the demon had over him was strong, creating an iron hold on his distorted desires. When I realized the futility of the situation, I had no choice but to improvise.” he frowns, bringing a clenched fist to his chest. Seeing Yusuke do that is one thing; seeing Kamoshida was another. “It’s not something I like to do. One can only twist the rules so many times before the repercussions begin to bounce back. I worry that people such as Akechi Goro will uncover the truth.”

Silence drips between them, Akira’s mind spinning to line up the facts. He can’t find any holes in Yusuke’s story. It sounded like a fantastical tale, something woven by a childAkira’s book author to whisper in the ears of those who didn’t know any better. If they hadn’t seen or heard the proof, then it was crazy coming from the mouth of a high school student.

Then again, could Kitagawa Yusuke really count as a student?

“Does Madarame know about this?” he asks once Yusuke reverts to a kitsune. It was better; he’d rather talk to a fox than Shujin’s former gym teacher.

“Will that information benefit you?” Yusuke responds, keeping his back turned as he examines the offerings for a second time.

...Huh. Akira shakes his head. “I... suppose not.”

“Good. Then do not waste any more time worrying,” Yusuke faces him. “I may have told you about Madarame, but he is not someone you want to be near. Promise that you will not let him corner you, or that you will not go out of your way to find him.”

“Yusuke—”

The fur on the back of his neck rises, a glower twisting to life. “Swear on it.”

With the way Yusuke looks at him, he can’t bring himself to say no. There’s something there, he realizes, something that Yusuke did not want to be touched. Just what type of man was Madarame if he had a _kitsune_ shaken? “Fine. I won’t.”

“...Thank you,” and like that, Yusuke flips back to his usual demeanor. “Well, I feel we’ve wasted enough time here. Let’s return to the real world, shall we?”

Akira decides it’s best not to argue. So he only nods, following him back down the passage. By the time he rounds the corner to the shrine, Yusuke has shed the kitsune form for something more familiar: Second year art student from Kosei, dark hair, dark eyes... then there were the fox ears. They match the color of his hair save for the lighter shade that dusts the inside hairs.

Yusuke doesn’t seem aware of the issue. “Yes?” he asks when they’re standing face-to-face.

‘ _Are these real?_ ’ They’re soft, not unlike Yusuke’s hair, but it’s like stroking velvet. One responds more than the other to touch, twitching as his thumb grazes the outer rim. ‘ _Wow, they are._ ’

“Please stop that.”

“Sorry,” he retracts his hands immediately. It doesn’t stop him from staring though. “Is that supposed to happen?”

They’re real, yes, but when he tilts his head like that, they almost seem like those weird cat ear headbands girls wore in cosplay or just for the hell of it. “It’s not proper for me to have them out. Outside the spirit world, I make sure to suppress them – the tail too, of course...” (his human form had a _tail_?) “But you already know what I am. There’s no sense in hiding them, unless they somehow cause you discomfort.”

Akira shakes his head. “No, it’s just different.”

“I’m glad. It takes up some energy to maintain any forms,” he says, reaching for the kitsune idol lying on the altar. “Allowing my ears or tail alleviates stress, as small as it may seem.” the idol stirs to life, eyes glowing as Yusuke holds it gently. “I’d be glad to tell you more later, but for now – here. It’s easier if you close your eyes.”

It’s warm, but he does as Yusuke suggests despite feeling a little silly. That very warmth spreads from his fingertips down to the tips of his toes, an embrace of soft arms that hold him firmly, that nothing was going to harm him.

He does not open his eyes – does not want to, he realizes – feeling the allure of sleep tugging deeply at his mind.

When was the last time he had a fair night’s rest?

“Kurusu...”

...Were they switching back to last-name basis? Yusuke looms over him, and the sounds of the outside stream into his ears. He takes Yusuke’s hand, realizing he no longer has the idol from the other world.

“How’s your head?” he asks bluntly. “Can you remember anything?”

Akira nods slowly. “Yeah,” maybe if he stared long enough the ears would bloom from Yusuke’s skull.

“Good. I understand this is a lot to take in,” he says. “Is there anything else you want to know?”

Too much, his mind says.

The kitsune thing was still weird, and Yusuke turning into Kamoshida was a joke to tell Ryuji and Ann only when they were in a good mood. Then there was Morgana and the injuries they both sustained from the attack. Morgana hadn’t any bumps or flinched from his touch in the real world. And then there were the scars on his own body, the bandages that had practically constricted his ribcage.

“Is Morgana a spirit too?”

Yusuke’s shoulders lift in a weak shrug. “Truthfully, I’m not entirely sure what Morgana is. He has not told me anything about his origins other than how you two met.”

“Huh?”

“He’s very grateful for you... Although he doesn’t like the taste of the cat food you’ve been giving him.”

Well... Buying a new brand would be cheaper than switching to a diet of fatty tuna.

They’re standing outside the gates of Hanazono Inari Shrine when Yusuke speaks again, “Should you ever return to the spirit world, please be careful. There are spirits both kind and cruel hiding in the fog. Kamoshida was a powerful demon, and the wounds he inflicted on you were not easy to mend.”

Akira self-consciously grips his forearm. Kamoshida’s claws were not like Morgana’s little scratches; it had burned. “You helped us?”

“I couldn’t very well leave you there, could I? I hope Takemi-san doesn’t mind that I borrowed some of her supplies.”

That was an issue of its own. He imagines Takemi kept the clinic under lock and key when she returned home. It would have been easier for Yusuke to shoplift bandages from a store than it would a _clinic_.

...Huh.

He had woken up with bandages around his arms and the trunk of his body. Which meant... “Did you take off my clothes while I was sleeping?”

“Yes,” No hesitation. Impressive. “Morgana can’t do much in his regular body, so I thought it best to assist him.”

“I... see...”

“It goes without saying, but do not mention this to anyone,” Yusuke says, and they pass by the spot where Madarame argued with him. “You already have a curious duo of friends and I would hate to see them get hurt because of it. Besides, we don’t know how their memories will be affected upon crossing the border,” Yusuke pauses momentarily to look at him. “For some reason, you’re special. You don’t seem to forget anything.”

The unintended (or he thinks it’s unintended...) compliment brings a smirk to his face. “Guess I’m just lucky.”

Yusuke returns the gesture with a wry smile. “That is one way to look at it.”

Further down the path where they had run into Madarame is an Art Academy. Akira wonders if he was a lecturer there or if he had been stopping on by. He didn’t seem like the type of person to teach a wide range of students. “Are you going to return home?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think I’d be fully welcome until I’ve made some progress on my sketches. Sensei understands that I’ll need a little more time. Until then, I can return to Kosei’s doors.”

“You could stay at Leblanc if you’d like.”

“No. I appreciate the offer, but I have probably overstayed my welcome. Besides, I find it to be rather distracting at times... I mean that in the best way. I appreciate all you and Sakura-san have done for me.”

Akira stops, fixing him with a frown. “He wouldn’t mind, you know.”

“It’s fine,” Yusuke says. “Though if there are any places you deem beautiful, please notify me.”

The closest thing that comes to mind would be the shrine they just visited. There are other places that bloom with an abundance of plant-life, meshing together with stone or wooden houses... But they are far from Tokyo, tucked in their corner a handful of hours down south. It is impossible to take Yusuke to those places unless they had the money or the free time.

Maybe Ann would know something.

He has an unread message on his phone from both her and Ryuji.

16:47.

Surely they still had time.

\--

Beneath the smiles and kind words, they didn’t trust her. Shiho had no say in her new schedule, but that was okay because at least they let her use her phone. She received a variety of messages from Ann following the day she woke up.

  
**Thursday - >**

**ANN.** hey~

**ANN.** are you feeling okay? i’ll be coming by after school again.

  
**Thursday - >**

**ANN.** i have to work at Rafflesia today. but i'll be over right after!

That Thursday she arrived with a small, mismatched bouquet. The flowers sit on the windowsill, the plethora of colors quite painful to the eye, but Ann meant well, and Shiho appreciated it. No lilies, of course.

It had been more than her parents had given her.

She hears the knock at the door, and she frowns. Ann had visited about an hour and a half ago, and as far as Shiho knew, it was too late for a therapy session and too early to eat. They don’t exactly wait for her cue to enter.

He’s familiar, but at the same time, he is not.

It still doesn’t stop her heart from skipping a beat.

“You...” Dark blue hair and dark blue eyes, the very person she saw in her mind’s eye who kept Kamoshida at a distance. She sits up straighter. “You were the one—”

“ _Hey_!!” Ann is never far from her, shoving him aside with a bit more force than necessary. “You don’t just barge into people’s rooms like that! I told you to wait!”

In between the offended look he gives Ann, Shiho can make out Kurusu hanging in the back, just as unsure as she is. He must not have been anticipating such a scene either.

There’s not much to do but watch Ann and this stranger argue.

She learns his name is Kitagawa Yusuke, a second-year partaking in the fine arts division at Kosei High. The more she sees of him, the more she realizes he is the one she saw in her dream.

“You must be Suzui-san,” he says once everything’s calmed down. Ann sits closest to her, Kurusu having left the room to check on Sakamoto, promising to return later. “Takamaki-san has told me about you.”

“...That you like to draw,” Ann chips in quickly. “I told him you used to visit parks and just draw in between your classes. Though that happened before... I mean, a while ago, so I can understand if you’d rather not talk about it.”

  
_If you’d rather not think about volleyball and Kamoshida._

She shakes her head to clear it, to say she doesn’t mind, to just do something in the inevitable awkwardness. “It’s okay,” she finds herself saying anyway. “Um, the Meiji Shrine is nice, but I sometimes went to the church in Kanda. Some of their stain glass paintings remind me of art from the Romanesque period.” It is quite evident in the way he looks at her that she has Kitagawa’s attention.

“I see,” he muses. “Then I suppose I will have to stop by to visit. It has been quite a while since I’ve last visited. I’m sure things have changed.”

Hm? “When did you last go?”

“Hmm...” he hesitates, or so she thinks. Perhaps her question had caught him off guard. “It wasn’t too long ago. Usually I gravitate towards shrines or Shinto motifs, but I will be sure to stop by in Kanda. Thank you, Suzui-san,” and then: “Do you think you could share some of your drawings?”

The last time she drew anything had well been over half a year, or whenever Kamoshida walked in and increased the practice. There’s a sketchpad or two from middle school still tucked under her bed – she had no need for it. Although she cringes to think of what her silly doodles would look in comparison to a student from Kosei. Art to her was just a hobby; to him, it was a study.

She shakes her head timidly. “Ah, I’m not that good. It’s okay, I don’t remember where I put them anyway,” quickly: “Sorry.”

It wasn’t wrong to keep a few things secret.

“I see,” Kitagawa says, looking almost dejected.

She’s on the verge of apologizing again when he notices the bouquet of flowers packed snugly in a vase. “Oh, maybe you could draw those, Kitagawa-kun,” she offers. “Ann picked them out for me.”

“Well, you already know where I work,” Ann sighs. “If it was flowers you wanted, you could have just stopped by and bought a few. No need to take Shiho’s.”

“Ann—”

“No, it’s quite alright,” Kitagawa cuts off. “I can tell this was supposed to be an important gift. It would be rude of me to draw and use it for my own.”

Ann hums thoughtfully. “Uh, thanks, Kitagawa-kun. I think...?”

“Besides your choice of flowers are horrendous.” (“ _What_?” Ann exclaims.) “Wouldn’t you agree, Suzui-san?”

“I mean,” she swallows, cheeks feeling hot as the spotlight is shifted onto her. Well, Kitagawa wasn’t _completely_ wrong about the mismatched symbolism. “they’re colorful.”

Ann blushes as well. “I made sure to avoid the hydrangeas! And they’re not rooted,” she crosses the room to lift one out by the bud. A bit of water dribbles down the cut stem and onto the white tiles. “See?”

“It’s okay, Ann,” Shiho assures, hoping to diffuse the sparks flying between them. “I like it,” and then she looks at Kitagawa. “Um, Kitagawa-kun. Have we met before?”

She directs the question at him, but Ann is just as confused. “This is our first meeting,” he says. “Perhaps you’re confusing me for someone else.”

There’s no way. This was the same person she saw in her dreams. But how did she break that to him without sounding crazy? Then again, did it really matter? It didn’t seem as if Ann was close to Kitagawa – she won’t even call him by his _first name_ – meaning there was a high chance she wouldn’t be seeing him too often.

No matter how hard she tried though, she couldn’t write it off as some mere coincidence.

The day before his arrest, Kitagawa connected himself to Kamoshida.

“Thank you again, Suzui-san,” Kitagawa says, smiling softly at her. “I will make way for Kanda the first thing tomorrow. I can hardly wait to see what sort of inspiration it will bring me.”

Shiho can only blink, head dipping in a firm nod. He was quite the strange character. “I’m glad I could help.”

Ann starts as he grasps the doorknob. “Where are you going?”

“To pay a visit to Kurusu and Sakamoto,” he responds, and then the door shuts behind him.

Ann waits a minute before turning to face the flowers a second time, picking at one of the petals. Shiho wants to tell her to leave it be but decides it’s not worth it. She stares at her hands laying in her lap. The callouses on the pads of her fingers were from the months and months of volleyball. Shiho can’t recall the last time they were used to draw.

“Hey Shiho...”

She looks up. “Yes?”

“What did you mean back there? About Kitagawa-kun?” Ann leaves the poor flower alone. She’s toyed with it so much Shiho wonders if it’ll the first to wilt.

Ah. That.

“You don’t know him from anywhere, do you?”

Shiho shakes her head. “No, but...” she’s going to sound a little crazy, but this was Ann. She wouldn’t be judged for voicing her conflicts. Ann wasn’t like that. “I had this weird dream about Kamoshida. It was the same as that time,” (her fingers twist the blanket until the fabric bites at her knuckles for release.) “I couldn’t get away, no matter what I did. But then this man stepped out of nowhere and he shielded me from Kamoshida. He wasn’t armed, but still I felt safe,” again, she shakes her head, bringing a palm to her forehead. The injury under the bandaging tingles in pain. “And then I remembered the video you showed me.”

Seconds drip by, and Shiho looks up to make sure Ann is still listening. She is, playing with her hair, but she gives her a nod. “That’s what I was talking about with Sakamoto earlier. It took a little convincing, but this may just be something we can’t look deeper in to,” she exhales, defeated as she sits back in the chair. “I don’t think we’ll ever know if Kitagawa-kun did something or not. But Ryuji’s trying to stay positive. The good news is he’s locked up. He can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

There was some truth to her words. Judging by her resigned posture, Shiho wonders if she had brought up the video to Kitagawa already. Then there was another thing as well...

“...Ryuji?”

A beat.

“Eh?”

“Sakamoto-kun.”

“Oh, yeah! Uh, I guess that just slipped out, huh?” she laughed. “He’s not worrying about it. It’s a little weird to him too, but he’s just glad Kamoshida’s gone. Maybe I should start thinking the same thing.”

“He said that, huh?” Shiho muses, eyes drifting to the door. “I wish I could speak to him too. But I’m not exactly light on my feet either.”

“Shiho...”

For a while, they say nothing, sitting in a shared silence that is neither comfortable nor awkward. She’s been confined to her bed for the definite broken bones in her legs, the damage caused to her head from the fall. It wouldn’t be worth the risk if she was just going to fall and worry everyone else again.

Sakamoto got into this mess because he worried for her and his teammates. The least she could do was recover and not be so selfish.

And then Ann rises from her seat, putting her phone to her ear. Shiho can hear the soft buzzing as she waits for the other end to pick up. ‘ _Ann, what are you doing?_ ’ she wants to ask, but knows better than to interrupt someone when they’re on the phone – friend or not.

When she was younger, she made the mistake of interrupting her father when he was on the phone with his boss at the time. Such a childish thing to do, trying to ask him for a favor that she couldn’t even remember what it was about. A silly homework assignment that meant the world to her then but was no significant than an ant now, or maybe it was one of those stupid drawings she used to enjoy doodling all the way up until middle school.

Her father grew angry, scolded her, but the words carried through the mouthpiece and into whoever was listening on the other end. It had not been long before he hang up, told told her to leave him alone.

And she took the paper – the homework, the drawing – and quietly retreated to her room. Her father never yelled at her.

Looking back on it, the entire episode had just been another catalyst to a life lesson that needed pounding into her brain.

“Hey, face-time me,” Ann says. A pause. “Can you just do it?” she scoots her seat closer to the bed, holding the phone so they can both fit in the screen’s camera. The buffering spiral blinks and Sakamoto’s face appears on screen. An equally confused Kurusu and Kitagawa peek in at the sides.

“Suzui?” Sakamoto’s head lurches back in confusion.

“I thought this would be easier,” Ann says nonchalantly. “Alright, so! Now that we’re all here, let’s talk!”

“Huh? What about?”

Shiho’s at a loss for words just as much as the boys. But in between Sakamoto’s fumbling for a topic-starter, she turns to Ann.

She didn’t deserve her.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

Ann smiles back.

\--

“ _So, I was thinking we should all hang out like this. But you know, actually face-to-face.”_

“Hey, I’m all for that, but,” Ryuji gestures vaguely at his cast, realizes Ann can’t see that far down, and continues. “It may be a while before we can go anywhere.”

“ _Well no, not right away. Shujin has their annual cultural festival in October, so we’ll have to find something else in the meantime._ ”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Yusuke tilt his head in confusion. “Friends? We’re... friends now, Takamaki-san?”

“ _Guess so,”_ Ann says. “ _Even though you have your own secrets, you’re definitely invited too._ ”

Akira’s more curious as to what brought this on, but seeing Suzui timidly avoiding eye-contact with the camera lens is more than enough of an answer. The more he thinks on it, the more he realizes how bored she and Ryuji must be, blocked off from their friends and surrounded by nurses and doctors who were only doing their job to check on them.

And Ryuji wouldn’t have a sliver of that luxury for long either.

...It’s really not a bad idea.

“ _Another thing: stop with the ‘Takamaki-san’. Just ‘Ann’ is fine._ ”

“If you insist,” Yusuke sighs, but Akira doesn’t miss the ghost of a smile that hovers over his lips.

“ _What’ll we do though?_ ” Shiho interjects.

“ _Maybe we could meet up somewhere quiet._ ”

“Leblanc is quiet,” Yusuke offers.

Akira gives him a warning glance. He’s going to have to run this by Sojiro, and it’s not like he was going to Sojiro was just going to close off the café for his friends—

“Oh yeah, that coffee place!” Ryuji chimes in. “Nice thinkin’ Yusuke!”

Traitors.

“ _Leblanc?_ ” Ann echoes. “ _Ooh, that sounds kind of fancy. What’s it like?”_

_A letdown._ “Only the title is fancy,” Akira says quickly.

“But it’s quiet, ain’t it?” (Ryuji, stop talking.) “‘Sides, I don’t think he gets too many customers so even if we just hung out in the attic, it’d be cool so long as he’s okay with it.”

“If it’s the attic we’re going to,” Yusuke starts. “then I should return to decorate. His room is quite dull and void of anything remotely entertaining.”

Akira frowns. “I’m right here—”

“ _I’ll stop by after school!”_

At the determined look in Ann’s eyes, he figures maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to start thinking of ways to break this to Sojiro...

\--

The nurse asks them to leave when they’re well into their video chat. A quick glance at the time shows they’ve dipped into the evening. Ann is forced to leave as well, tagging them well on their way to Shibuya station before going her own way. It’s still difficult to talk to her – she doesn’t like secrets – and he mostly listened as talked about Shiho, the hypothetical party, how she was doing ‘research’ on recovery in the hospital

(She mentions something about flowers too, but after witnessing that horrid bouquet, Yusuke doesn’t know how serious she means)

and eventually, it’s back to him and Kurusu.

One stop could bring him to Kosei High.

A second would welcome him back at Leblanc.

If he turned around now, he could go back to the atelier...

“You don’t have to be formal around us,” Kurusu’s voice breaches his thoughts. He’s not looking at him, attention seemingly locked onto an older man who’s giving speeches by the stairs to Shibuya’s underground mall.

He’s not too sure how to respond to that. “This is just how I speak.”

Kurusu says nothing.

It’s strange. Kurusu wasn’t much of a talker, but Yusuke could sense... disappointment?

He struggles to read emotions. For as black and white as they were, humans were complex. They were driven by their desires, never fully doing something for themselves. In the end, people fulfilled favors for others simply for praise; it wasn’t always for someone else. Beings driven by selfishness...

Spirits at least had a drive, one purpose.

Humans had to complicate everything.

But Kurusu wasn’t like most. Yusuke could see the dedication he had to Ryuji and Ann, how he went out of his way to visit the hospital daily. Then there was the story of how he and Morgana met. A person kind to animals would want to extend that kindness to humans, wouldn’t they?

“What’re you going to do now?”

“I should go to Kanda while it’s still fresh in my mind,” he says as they make way into the station. “Thankfully, I have enough money for a roundtrip. I’m truly grateful for Suzui-san’s recommendation.”

Platform 6 and 7. Kosei would be two stops over, and he realizes how unprepared – how reluctant – he is to return to Madarame. Showing up without even a sketch on canvas would not be a good idea. There were some blank ones lying around in his room, so he could make do with those. As for the drawing itself... Kanda was one option, but so was the spirit world. His conflicted emotions could give rise to decaying Shinto motifs.

But that may be too blasphemous for some viewers.

And there was no telling what Inari herself would have to say about such an image.

Not that she’s watching his every move – that was silly to think.

...He needed to stop thinking about that. For as nice as it for the spirit to exist as an escape, he couldn’t hide there forever. Madarame managed to find him no matter where he went, where he hid.

There was, _is,_ one place that was safe. In the time he was there, he was able to fill a quarter of the sketchbook with drawings. Something about the atmosphere of the café made it easier to concentrate than in the dorms or the atelier. It could have been the background noise of the TV from downstairs or Morgana’s not-so-soft breathing as he slept.

“Would I be getting in the way if I were to visit Leblanc tomorrow?”

Kurusu gives him a quizzical look.

“I’ll be going shortly after closing hours if that works for you.”

“You don’t need to ask.”

Perfect. “I thought it the polite thing to do, but... Thank you, Akira,” ah. “I-I mean, Kurusu.”

He only shakes his head, smiling softly. “No, it’s fine. I think we’re beyond the point of using last names.”

Hm... Kuru— Akira seemed a lot more approachable with that smile. A shame he chose to hide it.

In the end, Yusuke can only chuckle in agreement. “I suppose you’re right.”

And so, with Akira, they wait quietly for the next train.

\--

**ANN.** hey, am I bothering you?

**AKIRA.** No. What’s wrong?

**ANN.** it's about Yusuke.

**ANN.** i owe him an apology. the last time we saw each we got into an argument about Kamoshida. it was my fault though. he was trying to help and i went off on him like that. so i just wanted to know when you’d see him again.

**AKIRA.** He said he’d visit tomorrow. But you don’t need to apologize. He understands.

**ANN.** yeah, i guess... still, it feels wrong not to.

**AKIRA.** Suit yourself.

[...]

**AKIRA.** Ann, do you know an artist named Madarame Ichiryusai? [ **DELETED** ]


	8. Chapter 8

Kawakami Sadayo tries to fulfill her promise. She speaks to Akira in between classes, tells him of what she knows about Sakamoto Ryuji’s health

(at least what the _school_ will tell her)

and sometimes a subtle warning not to cut class again. It’s not unlike the warning he gets from his father through the voice messages slowly accumulating in his inbox. He still doesn’t have the patience or courage to call back. Akira makes a mental note to call back once Ryuji and Shiho are released from the hospital.

He doesn’t expect to remember.

Change does take place within the following week, as Yusuke said.

For one, Shujin scrambles for a new coach to help pick up the teams. They find someone who used to teach at a middle school before transferring to high school-level. As far as education level, that was the highest Shujin was going to get. If rumors were anything to go by, he’s a sympathetic guy who treated all his students with the respect they deserved...

...But rumors are bullshit, so Akira can’t bring himself to be entirely convinced.

Therein lied the second change. From himself to Ann, there are not as many people who share the same amount of gratitude for Ryuji or Yusuke. The filthy words that attached themselves to Ann’s back from other students slowly dissolved. In its place was something equally bad.

(“ _They’ve disbanded the track team...”_

  
_“Uggh, I needed that scholarship for track!”_

  
_“This is all Sakamoto’s fault. If he hadn’t taken a swing at Kamoshida...”_

  
_“Yeah, but Kamoshida was a creep, and didn’t he break his leg?”_

  
_“Who gives a shit? He ended up turning himself in the next day anyway. He might’ve done it right after Suzui jumped, even! Maybe that’s what he was doing until Sakamoto barged into his office!”_

  
_“You dumbass, that video wasn’t filmed here...”_

_“If Sakamoto controlled that damn temper of his, he wouldn’t have screwed us all over.”_ )

To say he’s angry is an understatement. Ann’s frustration is palpable, but she knows when to show it. She keeps her head bowed, scowling when she knows the eyes are not on her or when it’s just the two of them. The school roof has been closed off, so they sit in Shujin’s courtyard by the vending machine that never worked.

“Do they hear themselves?” she hisses, glaring at a group of students clad in Shujin gym clothes. Akira doesn’t think they specifically are on the track team, but he doesn’t care to point this out. “Ryuji was sticking up for them and they’re not even grateful.”

Though they both know the truth: He was sticking up for more than just the team. For himself, for students like Mishima, Ann and Shiho...

A part of him wonders if some of these students have yokai connected to them much like Kamoshida. He toys with the idea of asking Yusuke.

“Some of the girls were talking about in the locker room. It doesn’t seem they’re as upset as the guys, but there are a few who just like to talk,” Ann sighs, plucking one of those Jagariko sticks from her container. “You’d think they’d just be happy Kamoshida’s gone. Hey, let’s go inside. Our class will be starting soon.”

Akira can only nod.

“You know,” Ann muses as students rush by them, scrambling to get to their destinations. “I wonder if Ryuji’s heard about Yamauchi-sensei. He used to coach here at Shujin before we graduated middle school.”

The service in Ryuji’s wing hadn’t been the best, but it wouldn’t surprise him if he found out through a random internet search about Shujin. Holed up in a hospital room for days and days on end, he was probably glued to his phone. Aside from himself and Ann, that was his only connection to school.

“Guess it was pointless to think everything would go back to normal.”

He can’t help wondering if Yusuke had anticipated this. A kitsune couldn’t see the future.

\--

He’s passing by that large 105 Men sign when it happens.

It starts out small, a little uncomfortable pang in his heart, before it unfurls its petals. He’s pressed himself against the wall, hand clenching at his chest. Distantly, he feels the strap of his bag slipping off his shoulder, resting in the crook of his elbow. His breath saws in and out of him, sweat beading his forehead when he practically melts against the wall, legs giving out beneath him.

“Are you okay?”

“Hey, someone call—”

They’re looking. Too many eyes, too many voices talking about him – _at_ him. Yusuke staggers slowly to his feet, shaking his head. “Please, don’t- I’m fine,” he argues, looking at the woman who’s already put the phone to her ear. “I just need something to eat.”

An exaggeration if there ever was one.

“But you fell!”

“I appreciate the concern,” his breathing is labored, trembling steps taken as he maneuvers past the small crowd that gathered by the sign. “Forget this happened.” And it probably looks even _more_ suspicious as he propels himself out of their earshot.

How nosy...

His heart feels as if it’s about to crumble, slipping through the cage of his ribs by the time he steps into the sun of Station Square. There are no notifications on his phone, but he knows exactly where to go, to rid the pain. It’s a whisper against his ear drum, a pesky fly that refuses to leave him alone.

As much as he does not yearn it, he has no choice.

Big Bang Burger is too crude for adults, yet comfortable enough for teenagers and children. It became that restaurant parents would take their kids to only to stop incessant whining that beckoned a day’s worth of headaches. The food itself was greasy, salt clinging to fries and burgers alike, and their sodas were not worth the extra 60 in yen.

It is the least conspicuous place to meet, and across from an alley where hushed secrets could safely spill from one ear to another.

Yusuke refuses to eat anything at Big Bang Burger despite the hunger that gnaws at his stomach. And he _especially_ refuses to be caught eating there. Not when the CEO of that building was undoubtedly tangled by his desire for more power. And after this talk, he’s not sure if his stomach would be able to contain even a morsel.

“There you are,” Madarame’s smile is as fake as his talent. Yusuke’s gut tightens into a knot. “I figured it’d be easier to talk here since you’ve yet to return home.”

He says nothing, forcing his feet to follow behind the arcade, down that alley, a few stores away from that airsoft shop. The noises of Shibuya are muffled, crammed by the buildings that stretch towards the clouds. There’s a sketch of this very space in one of the notepads back in the atelier marked with a large black ‘X’. It has truly become an unworthy sight as time went on.

The agony from before rides through his veins, connecting with the unsteady rhythm of his heart.

Madarame’s smile is erased cleanly. “I can see you’re alone today. That’s good. It will make things much easier for our little talk.”

“I’ll have it done in time,” the words are so recited that he almost gags.

He senses this as well. “You and I know this is about more than art. But you’d better not be lying. That deadline is coming up in less than a week now. What have you been doing this whole time?”

“I’ve been helping my friends.”

The peal of laughter that spills is harsh, notes strung together to form a dissonance that surges to his very core. “Don’t be ridiculous... You don’t have any friends,” he jeers. “They all left you the day they abandoned me.”

Yusuke meets his eyes, hopes that his own expression isn’t a window to the hurt Madarame’s words have carved.

“These people are just the same. They’ll pretend to care for you but won’t hesitate to leave when they realize what you are,” his face has twisted itself into a scowl when he grabs Yusuke’s wrist tightly. “You’re only good at pushing people away. You should be grateful there’s at least one person willing to put up with your spontaneous behavior. Remember that I'm trying to help advance _your_ art, not mine.”

There is a glimmer of truth in Madarame’s words.

He tried to push away Akira the night they met.

He shunned Sakura-san the first day.

He snapped at Ann.

And at the end of it all, he was still withholding secrets. He kept a tight lid on the things that mattered despite showing Akira the other world and his identity. Perhaps he truly was a terrible friend for not being able to fully trust them.

Madarame’s fingers dig into his skin and he winces. “Well? Do you have an excuse this time?”

Akira wouldn’t leave him of his own volition. He would understand the secrets, that there are some things a human must never know about a kitsune.

But he’s screwed up before. Madarame could vouch for it each time the door swung close.

“ _Yusuke_!” the nails bite harder into his skin.

He swallows. “I’m sorry.”

Except that’s not the right thing to say. Apologizing is agreeing to something wrong, that he did something worthy of punishing.

The sound of the slap registers in his ears before the pain. His head is jerked to the left, cheek stinging from the impact of Madarame’s back hand. It’s enough to temporarily drown out the increasing pain gathering in his chest.

“You’ve had enough time on your own,” Madarame says, as if he hadn’t just struck him. “If I have to come get you myself, I will. Of course, the consequences will be much dire if I end up resorting to such a thing. I hope for your sake you will do what’s right. I will give you until tonight,” he begins walking away, but not without striking a sharp blow with his words. “I’d hate to have to use the... well, you know exactly what I’m referring to, don’t you, Yusuke?”

The glint of silver winks back at him from inside Madarame’s sleeve.

His heart is all but ready to burst. He puts a fist over his chest in a futile attempt to calm its own rapid breathing. “Yes, sensei,” he says quietly. “I’ll be there tonight. I promise.”

“Good,” he hears the smug lilt to his voice. “I will see you then.”

The right side of his face still throbbing, he resists the urge to cradle it with his palm. He waits until Madarame’s out of sight until he too abandons the alleyway. There’s a sudden urge to retreat to the spirit world. He’d temporarily lose his human form, but it was okay. Sometimes, it was easier on all fours. And there, nobody looked at him funny or pried into his affairs. But why should they? Spirits could not feel like humans could.

And yet his mind tangled was tangled in complexity of emotions.

He cannot feel comforted by the pain that has evaporated from his heart.

\--

“Hey,” Sojiro says that evening when everyone’s left. “You doing okay?”

Akira stuffs the leftover pot of curry into the fridge. Too many spices, Sojiro had commented. It had been a step up from coffee brewing and a new art to learn. Maybe he’d save it for that get-together Ann desperately wanted. Though he’s not sure if Ryuji’s sensitive palate could handle a multitude of flavors.

“We haven’t had much time to talk since your teacher was arrested,” Sojiro continues. “And... Well, have you heard from your friend?”

He hesitates. There was no need to lie to Sojiro, but there was a need to omit the whole kitsune thing. “Yeah, he’s doing fine.”

“Is he...?” Sojiro raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. The barrage of questions, however, does not come. “Well, next time you see him, tell him to stop by. It was nice having someone to help around during the day.”

Huh...? Akira blinks at him. “Yusuke served customers?” The image of Yusuke making a plate of curry was too surreal.

“He didn’t make anything, don’t worry,” Sojiro sighs tiredly. “Just wiped down a few tables and swept the floor.” he walks around the counter, pushing in a stool as he does. “I’m closing up shop. You look exhausted, so get some sleep.”

“I will.”

He hears the ringing of the bell before Leblanc is plunged into silence. Morgana waits for him by the bathroom door. Upon returning from the hospital, he hoped, just a sliver, he would understand Morgana this time. But the only thing that came out of his mouth was just different intonations of meows. For all he knew, Morgana could be calling him every name in the book and here Akira was rewarding him by adding more food to his bowl.

His phone still has one undeleted message in the answering machine. He brought himself to listen to it, but his finger could not tap the ‘Call Back’, try as he might. There were times Akira did not know what to say, and many of those times had, in some way, involved his parents.

But Sojiro was gone, his day had been uneventful with no trips to that mysterious world. He can sum up enough courage to call back, prepare himself for the words that would dare cut him down for biting back.

Perhaps he should have his study books out while he talked. It would give his parents one less thing to yell at him for.

The floorboards squeak under his weight when he hears the knock.

Confusion lances through him followed by irritation, chasing away any ideas of calling his parents back. Couldn’t people read the sign?

“ _Meow...?_ ” Morgana says as he hurries by.

Sojiro forgot something, he thinks as he peers through the window.

Except Sojiro was not a girl, and he did not have long black hair decorated with a red accessory. Akira does not recognize the dark blue blazer of her school uniform. But she meets his eyes without a word when he opens the door.

  
_Huh. She’s cute._

“Uh—”

“May I come in?” she says. “I need to borrow your phone; I won’t be long.”

He’s half-tempted to ask if she has the money for the payphone, but he could spare a yen coin or two. His head dips in a nod, stepping aside so she can walk in. Morgana scampers over, meowing loudly as she takes a seat.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he offers, watching her carefully. She hasn’t made a move to pick up the phone.

She glances at him, hands clasped together on the counter. “I thought I smelled curry earlier.”

“Huh?” Akira’s finger barely touches the switch on the coffee machine (“ _Mraw_!”). And she giggles softly. He’s not sure what to say.

“Have you forgotten so soon?” and slowly, her body _grows_ , face molding, curves of her body ironing out as she changes before his eyes. Her hair shortens, takes on a shade of dark blue, and he’s no longer staring at a mysterious girl. “I should be offended,” Yusuke says, smile smug.

Akira’s heart temporarily leapt into his throat.

Right.

Kitsune.

Yusuke could do that.

The pale skin, the dark hair and eyes... There’s no mistaking it, and yet...

The initial shock is dashed. Akira slowly closes the distance between them, eyeing the dark discoloration on Yusuke’s right cheek. And the smile drops from Yusuke’s face before he turns away, hair brushing against the mark at the sudden jerk of his head. “It... it’s nothing.”

Akira feels Morgana brush against his ankle, oddly quiet.

He knows better than to pry

(“ _don’t mettle in other people’s business”_ )

but he does anyway. “Did he do that?”

Silence drips by between them. He counts the seconds in his head as they accumulate around them slowly. The atmosphere borders on uncomfortable, and he had thought – had believed – the last time he would ever feel this way about Yusuke was on the night they first met.

He shakes his head. “No. It wasn’t his fault.”

“Yusuke...”

“Drop it,” he snaps before realizing how the words clap against the quiet of the café. Quieter, “Please.”

The dark color against the backdrop of pale skin is wrong. It’s a shade that shouldn’t be there. But Akira knows, and Yusuke knows too. The barrier between them is impenetrable, another obstacle sprouting from a seed planted in Ueno park, watered by Madarame’s faux words.

So he does.

For now.

“Why’re you here?” Akira asks instead.

“I need to clear my head,” Yusuke responds, brushing at his bangs. Akira doesn’t miss the way his knuckles graze against the bruise. “Per Suzui-san’s suggestion, I visited Kanda. However, it failed to conjure the same inspiration I was struck with at Leblanc.”

Akira hums. “You’re planning to draw the café?”

“Not exactly. I simply need the proper environment,” his eyes flit to the stairs. “Shall we be off? I could use your help next time I visit.”

He blinks at him. “I can’t draw.”

“I’m well aware,” Yusuke maneuvers around them. “but you can help me in a way that doesn’t require picking up a pencil. Even if one of those methods involves you holding Morgana so I can draw him.”

“ _M-Mraw?!_ ”

Akira follows him up the stairs, abandoning the idea of coffee and curry. His room is cold— cold _er_ than it had been last night. Smack before the cusp of summer, he can’t understand the sudden chill sneaking into his room to torment him in both wake and sleep. He stands and well, he’s not sure what to do when Yusuke starts rummaging through the sketches abandoned on the work table.

There’s a stiffness about him, a palpable anxiousness that hovers on Yusuke’s shoulders. Akira feels something akin to discomfort bubbling in his stomach, and he can’t seem to pull his gaze from the bruise on Yusuke’s cheek.

Morgana’s unsettlingly quiet as well, sitting in front of the TV resting on the table.

“Is there a reason you were disguised as a girl?”

His hands still momentarily. “I’m afraid I have a curfew tonight. Madarame has many connections, so I fear someone may recognize me if I walked around like this.”

“He sounds strict,” Akira says cautiously.

Yusuke sweeps aside a few more pages before crumpling the one in his hand, tossing it on the floor. (Akira would get annoyed about that later.) “It is exactly why I cannot afford to spend too much time here. I... don’t want to cause him any more stress.”

His eyebrows knit together, moving to pick up the ball of paper. “You know that’s not true.” Akira finds himself saying.

“Excuse me?”

Yusuke frowns back, drawings forgotten. Akira doesn’t cower under his stare. That bruise does not belong on his face. “He hit you, Yusuke, and you know it’s wrong.”

“I deserved it,” he protests weakly. “It wasn’t intentional, but—”

“Listen to yourself... How does someone accidentally get slapped?” Akira counters. “No one deserves to be hit,” a pause. “I’ve seen you in that other world. You can do the same to Madarame – I’ll help you.”

“You don’t understand.”

This wasn’t getting them anywhere. The logical part of his mind screams at him to search for the cracks in the mirror, recount everything Yusuke told him about Madarame. The emotional part tells him to back-off, let Yusuke be and ask him some other day.

But other days didn’t always come.

The students of Shujin kept waiting for that Other Day – he won’t.

“What is he making you do?”

Yusuke blinks at him, but Akira doesn’t miss the cautiousness that flickers in his eyes.

“Yesterday, you told him you’d have it done’,” his attention drags to the drawings, the ones that have yet to meet their fate of being put aside or reduced to paper balls that would soon litter the bedroom floor. “Those aren’t for you or for your school. They’re for Madarame.”

“Enough of this,” Yusuke roughly brushes by him. “He’s suffering from severe art block, and I am volunteering to help him—”

“—It’s plagiarism—”

“—in time for June. How can it be plagiarism if I’m offering? If I am willingly giving my consent, then it is not stealing,” the scowl that pulls at his lips is intimidating, but it is not a threat; Yusuke would never hurt him. A growl rumbles in Morgana’s throat anyway. “You promised you’d stay away. Keep your word, Akira.”

“Well,” he starts coolly. “you’re going to have to stay disappointed. I’m not okay with a friend getting hurt.”

A beat of silence.

They stare at one another – one twisted with anger, the other smooth and unreadable.

Yusuke sneers at him, “And just when I was beginning to think not all humans were the same. What is the point of making promises if you intend on breaking them?”

Akira says nothing, because there truly is nothing to say. It’s disappointing, he muses. Just when things were looking up, he had to go and ruin it with prying questions. But it had never been hard for Akira to ruin everything he touched.

He’s by the stairs when he finally speaks. “You shouldn’t meddle in what you don’t understand. This has nothing to do with the spirit world, and if I can’t fix it, what makes you think you can?”

“Because someone taught me change can happen,” Akira mutters before frowning at Yusuke. “but he’s too stubborn to take his own advice.”

“Hm... Fair answer,” the step groans under his foot and he freezes, looks back at Akira over his shoulder.

But the words never come, and Yusuke descends the stairs.

He listens for the sound of the bell, reaching out to Morgana to scratch his head when he meows. If he wants, he can pretend he’s asking if he’s alright…

...But he’s probably complaining about the cat food.

‘ _Well_ ,’ Akira thinks bitterly, making way downstairs to shut off the remaining lights, double checking the machines and the stove. ‘ _That could have gone better._ ’ He pushes in the chair Yusuke was sitting in—

 _Snap_.

Alarmed, he throws his gaze to the floor, looking for chipped wood on the chair’s feet. Sojiro was going to freak if this thing was already falling apart. But then he stops, recognizes there is a pressure beneath the sole of his foot. Slowly, slowly he shifts to inspect the source of the noise.

A twig and two dried leaves that curled at the edges. It was the type of leaf that clung to branches when the air was crisp with autumn, not the type that was left to bake beneath the hot summer sun.

They’re not fresh like the ones he found in his bed.

“ _Meow?_ ”

He scoops them up before Morgana can inspect, deciding to deposit them for now and interrogate Yusuke on them later. Akira made a mistake of not keeping the older ones, but he wouldn’t with this.

“Come on,” he says tiredly. “Let’s get to sleep.”

Morgana does not argue.


	9. Chapter 9

The bruises have begun to yellow.

But the intangible weights that sat on his shoulders, the stones sewn into his neck that kept him submerged, dissipated the day he called one Niijima Sae.

No one talks to him, but he doesn’t miss the pity in some of his classmates’ eyes. Sometimes he’ll watch Takamaki and Kurusu talk on the other side of the room. He realizes very quickly that he doesn’t have it in him to approach their desks.

Mishima is just as clueless as the team member lying in a room of white. He can’t bring himself to see Suzui Shiho either; he didn’t have the right to even stand next to her.

...So why was he at the hospital?

(“ _She’ll be back in half an hour,” the nurse explained. “Would you like to wait?”_

 _“U-Uh, yes please_.”)

The welt from where the volleyball smacked against his forearm begins to itch as the clock on the wall ticks by. He rubs at it self-consciously, eyes locked on the screen of the hanging TV.

It had been in his room when he saw the announcement.

It had been in his room when he called Niijima.

And now, he was at a hospital listening to some announcement about a famous artist and his exhibit.

He scratches harder, nails scraping skin through his sleeve as he busies his mind with a bullet list of points. If he can have everything laid out in his mind’s eye, the time would go by faster, and the faster he’d be able to see Suzui and apologize. Everything that happened could be broken down in Things both good and bad.

Kamoshida was gone. That was a good thing.

Shujin hired a new coach. That was neither good nor bad.

Suzui and Sakamoto were hurt. That was a bad thing.

Rumors began circling around Sakamoto. That was a terrible thing.

He has come to loathe volleyball with every fiber of his being. That was—

He hisses as his nails scrape against the flat of his heel. His finger draws up his sleeve to inspect the damage. Pale lines from his fingernails are printed atop one another on reddened skin. The swelling and itchiness of the welt is now on fire with pain.

Kamoshida’s arrest should have revived his interest in volleyball. It was one of the few things he was good at and it had been trampled upon and spit out like garbage. Whenever he messed up a serve, Kamoshida wasted no time in reprimanding him. Then came the day he wanted to improve himself, and he was easily fooled by Kamoshida’s fake support.

“You can visit her now,” the receptionist tells him. “We needed her to get settled in before sending anyone back.”

He nods numbly, pushing past the doors and down the burning white of the floor and ceiling. The pale blue of the walls is decorated with paintings. Some doors are left ajar while others are shut tight. He keeps his head straight, glancing only to scan the nameplate.

If Kamoshida hadn’t changed, he would’ve ended up here too.

.

..

The clap against his ear had stung, and he cupped it instantly, looking at his coach with eyes widened in disbelief.

‘ _Did he just hit me? Did—? What did I do wrong? Why did he hit me? This isn’t practice—_ ’ the questions had raced through his mind a pace too fast for him to catch. He coughed up as many apologies as he could, hoping that Kamoshida wouldn’t see the way the ball was trembling in his grip.

Another clap on the other ear.

“You’re a waste of time, Mishima,” Kamoshida had said. “You can’t even do the one thing you’re good at.”

And that wasn’t true. He experienced the fortune of scoring top of his class for last year’s midterms. His brain was wired to technical terms and bytes, not sports and physical punishment.

Now, he tells himself that he’s good at other things.

Then, he accepted the insults quietly, raising his arms weakly to shield his face with the ball. Just in case Kamoshida decided to go for another smack. “I’m sorry, sensei,” he had said quickly. “I don’t understand this method.”

“I’m not asking you to understand, I’m asking you to do it,” Kamoshida had snapped, and the ball slapped the ground loudly as it was spiked from his grip. “You’ve wasted so much of my time already. If you don’t want another penalty, you’ll get it this time.”

And of course, like the failure he is, he screwed up. Bad.

It’s a good serve, and his wrist still stung from where it smacked the ball. But where it lands... therein lied the problem.

Kamoshida deflected the ball with ease, but the look he gave Mishima had been unforgiving.

Not as unforgiving when the ball crashed into the side of his face. He saw the flash of stars dancing in and out of his vision as he hit the ground. He didn’t look at Kamoshida, and the nerves in his body sprung to life, shivering in anticipation. The floor had been easier to look at.

“Damn kid,” Kamoshida had spat. “Quit screwin’ around and get up – we’re done for today. You’ve just earned yourself an hour tomorrow too.”

No. He didn’t want to stay after. “I’m sorry, sensei,” he repeats. “I’ll get it right, I-I’m sorry—”

“Shut _up_ , Mishima,” and Kamoshida had gripped him by his forearm tightly, jerking him to his feet. His fingers dug into his shoulders, and Mishima had no choice but to look him in the eyes. “You don’t get to decide anything. I am your teacher, and you will do as I say whether you like it or not. So when I say you have to stay after tomorrow, that is _exactly_ what you’re going to do.”

Mishima stumbles, nearly falls onto his rear as he’s shoved back roughly.

“Clean up the gym before you go home.”

“Yes sir...”

.

..

Her room is partially open. She’s not looking this way, attention focusing on something buzzing outside the window. He notices the phone in her lap—

The door creaks softly.

“Ann?” Suzui looks, and then...

And then...

And then and then and then—

“Mishima-kun?”

He breaks down the hallway, tilting his body to avoid crashing into patients and nurses alike. Someone yells at him for running in the hallways, warns him to be careful, but for once, he doesn’t listen to the adult figures. Hadn’t he done that enough already?

His feet hasten him out the front door, down the road, as far away from the hospital as possible. He stops outside a store to catch his breath, not daring to peek over his shoulder at the white building, then bolts down the sidewalk with clips of air in his lungs.

No.

Suzui had seen him.

And he glimpsed the pity, the guilt.

How could she express those emotions when before, her eyes were distant, threatening to shed tears when he told her to go to Kamoshida’s office. He should have stayed – _could_ have– but he had a row of new bruises on both arms and he had been so _tired_.

Mishima grits his teeth, glaring at the concrete. His emotions are a jumbled ball of garbage that refuses to dissolve in his stomach.

Worthlessness, cowardice (‘ _I couldn’t speak to her_ ’), frustration, self-hate ( _‘I couldn’t even tell them to their face. I had to_ call)... They spin so fast the dizziness dabs at the corner of his vision, and he shakes his head hard to clear it.

Stop, stop, stop—

He has to stop walking, running, whatever the hell he was doing—

Stop.

...

Mishima’s become rather familiar with the pressure that leans against his eyes.

He’s stupid. He couldn’t talk to Suzui if she could see his face. What made him think he could speak to her? And what else? What would he have done if she let him in?

Kamoshida harmed her in a way no one should be harmed.

And Mishima had led her right into the maws of Kamoshida’s trap.

All because he was _tired_. A lazy, worthless nothing who cared about himself more than his team.

‘ _I did that... I helped Kamoshida hurt Suzui-san._ ’

* * *

Somewhere in the night of Shibuya, locked in a studio that had become more of a bedroom and a kitchen all in one, a stroke of paint is applied to a canvas once. Twice. Then again.

The composition, he notes bitterly, does not form what he sees in his mind’s eye.

Sensei didn’t seem to mind lending Yusuke his portfolio, a published collection of the works he had created over the years before falling into some unbeatable slump.

It lays open on a stool, turned to a page of a young woman gazing down lovingly (longingly?) at the delicate baby in her arms. Her red shirt is a contrast that blends well with the gold of the background. The real painter knew art – not Madarame – and their piece did _not_ belong in this portfolio.

Though her unmoving eyes gaze at her baby, he can’t help but feel she’s watching _him_ while he works at a painting that will never compare to her beauty. She tells Yusuke through her painted eyes and smile that it’s alright, that she would protect him... and love him... and care for him...

It is utterly patronizing.

He slashes an angry streak of dark blue across the canvas before slamming the book shut.


	10. Chapter 9.5

He stops receiving “updates” as time continues its slow crawl to the middle of summer. Kawakami is swamped with preparing them for midterms, and somewhere along the way, she forgets to tell him about Ryuji. But maybe the school kept everything under lock and key, afraid this little chink in their armor would bring the wrong type of news reporters.

That’s fine though.

Akira busies himself at the hospital after school, sometimes tagging along with Ann, sometimes going alone. He’s in a rut, stuck on repeat on a song that lost its lyrics, dissolving into a cacophony of noise and nothing more. Ann feels the same, musing different possibilities for a hangout among the five of them. It all sounds hypothetical with Ryuji and Shiho confined to the hospital, but Akira doesn’t have the heart to tell her.

But Ann wasn’t stupid.

“Hey,” Ryuji’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts. “Somethin’ bugging you?”

He shakes his head. “Just thinking.”

The news grew bored with Kamoshida, cycling their focus from weather to celebrities to Madarame’s art exhibit moving to June...

Yusuke hadn’t visited Leblanc since that night.

And Akira had no idea where Madarame’s atelier was. His hands were tied yet again, and he hated it. But knowing Yusuke

( _did he know him? Really?_ )

he was probably on another art escapade, waiting to be struck by some divine inspiration that would help him paint the picture his teacher wanted.

Ryuji sighs scratching the back of his head. “No chick flick moments, alright?” (Akira gives him a look.) “I know when something’s buggin’ ya. You... wanna talk about it, or something?”

“There’s not a whole lot we can do.”

“And what’s that mean?” Ryuji levels him with a gaze that is so serious it looks more out of place than anything else.

“It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it; you have enough on your plate as it is.” Akira looks to the cast, or rather the blanket that shields it from view. “How much longer?”

A shrug. “’Bout a month or so. They said it’s healin’ good and all, but they don’t wanna take it off just yet. Then there’s the whole physical therapy crap...” he says distantly. “Wonder how Suzui’s doing...”

About the same, he nearly says. Admittedly, Akira had not visited Shiho as much as Ann, frequenting Ryuji’s room in the short hours he spent at the hospital. There’s a bit of guilt there, something chiding him that he _should_ be visiting Shiho just as much as he does Ryuji. And that same voice also tells him to reach out to Yusuke...

He doesn’t listen to it.

“You seen Yusuke?”

“Huh?”

Ryuji does a double take. He’s hesitating... but why? “Just wondering is all. It’s kinda weird seeing you without him,” he allows himself a smirk, just a small one. “Was beginning to think you guys had become bffs or some shit. Gotten kinda weird seeing you without him.”

...Had Yusuke _really_ tagged along that much?

There’s a two-note knock on the door before Ann walks in without preamble. She looks from Ryuji to Akira, gives a timid wave. “Hey.”

“What’re you doing here?”

Ann frowns, coming to stand by his bed. “Are you going to say that _every time_ I come to see you? No ‘hi Ann, how are you?’, just ‘what do you want?’.” she mocks, voice dipping to mimic Ryuji’s voice.

“I don’t sound like that!” he quips.

“Suure...”

Akira rises from the chair, gestures at it half-heartedly. The padded seating became uncomfortable after a while. “Do you want to sit?”

She blinks. “Oh, thanks.”

“No, seriously,” Ryuji continues once she’s seated. “Why are you here? Didn’t you have work or something?”

“Called off,” Ann says with a shrug. “It’s not as if I can focus or anything. Besides, I wanted to see you.”

“Huh? Me?”

“Don’t look too surprised...”

Ryuji’s room is unlike Shiho’s. It’s not decorated with pretty flowers or get-well cards. Then again, Shiho didn’t receive any cards either. Her family probably didn’t live in the area, and if Ann was being honest, then the only people she had close were her parents... Ann too, of course.

But at least Ryuji had a nice view of the parking lot than the neighboring building Shiho’s window was stuck with. The cars race across the pavement, kicking off at the glow of the green streetlight, people hustling along crosswalks. From so high up, everyone looks the same: A speck not unlike the ants that scurried across the ground in the early bloom of spring or in the heartbeat of the summer.

“Ren?”

...He turns, realizes he’s in front of the window. “Oh.”

“What’s gotten into you?”

“Yeah, you look kinda out of it...” Ann chips in.

“And don’t say ‘just thinking’, man... Seriously.”

Well. He _is_ tired, and he ponders if messaging Yusuke will warrant a response. Maybe he should return to Leblanc, fold for a day, come back tomorrow. Repeat the same thing again and again like he’s been doing for the past almost-month now... “I should go,” he finds himself saying. “I promised I’d help Sojiro close up shop.” Not a _complete_ lie, his mind assures him.

They don’t look convinced, but he’s thankful when they choose not to argue. But Ryuji does speak when Akira puts his hand on the doorknob.

“Let me know if you see him.” (Confusion flits across Ann’s face.)

Hm. Maybe Ryuji was more perceptive than Akira had given him credit for. “Thanks,” he says. When the door clicks shut, he swears he hears the beginning of Ann’s interrogation of what the hell just happened.

In due time, he’d tell her too.

\--

Akira calls Sojiro – because he wouldn’t answer texts for whatever reason – when he’s stepping onto the platform at Kanda. Sojiro just tells him to be careful, to not be out too late, and something about leaving the spare key in the “usual spot” should Akira have forgotten his. He offers to keep the café open later, but Akira doesn’t need that.

It’s truly a foolish idea.

Yusuke had mentioned _once_ that he’d visit Kanda. The chances of running into him were slim, but Akira’s curiosity sometimes controlled his feet better than his mind did. He finds himself at the cathedral not much later, pushing at the towering wooden doors. There’s a chill that slithers down his spine as he steps inside.

Kanda’s cathedral is a lot smaller than he was expecting.

There are rows of seats, the confessional booth at the front right, and a large stain glass window catching shafts of the evening sun in its panels. The altar is bare save for a long table supporting a statue of a cross. Compared to the shrines in Ueno, these are extremely Christian-themed.

He had a difficult time picturing Yusuke here.

But maybe he didn’t _have_ to imagine it; Yusuke was nowhere to be seen among the empty wooden benches. His feet drag to a halt at the middle of the aisle, a spark of disappointment clipping to life in his stomach.

For a church, he was expecting it to be more guarded, that someone would be on the floor to watch for whoever decided to cause mischief in a house of God... and maybe he should just turn around and go home, because did he _really_ just think the words ‘house of God’...?

He chances one more sweep of his surroundings, clinging to one last sliver of hope...

...and he sees him.

Or... _her_.

The blood pounds in his ears, heart racing to match the tempo of disbelief that fills him, and he hurries to the front row.

“Yusuke?” his name leaves his lips, and the girl looks up in surprise. Immediately, he knows he’s messed up. There’s no shadow of the bruise on her cheek, her eyes are not nearly as lost in her own world, and she’s genuinely _shocked_. The apology slips off his tongue. “Sorry, forget I said anything.”

The embarrassment crawls up his throat when she stops him. “Um, please wait.”

But she _sounds_ like Yusuke did when he last visited Leblanc. Why of all people would Yusuke take the form of this girl...?

Blue blazer, black skirt, the Kosei insignia like a bright star on a dark night – a classmate, his mind suggests.

“Did you,” she starts. “What did you call me?”

He blinks. Well. This was awkward. “Yusuke.”

“Yusuke...” she echoes. “Kitagawa Yusuke?”

Classmate, his mind confirms smugly. He can’t find his voice, mouth dry and tongue heavy. So he nods.

“He goes to my school,” she continues. “I... Oh, I’m sorry. Please, take a seat.”

And he does, but not before he sees the board and its many pieces in the space to her right. Each one has a character carved into its back, the board itself streaked with black lines that cross over one another to make a graph of sorts.

She must catch him staring. “Sorry,” she says again. “I’ve found it’s easier to concentrate, to play shogi here than back in the dorms.”

Oh. So _this_ was that shogi “beauty queen” Ryuji talked about what felt like an eternity ago.

He raises an eyebrow. “By yourself?”

“Yes,” and she seems to _withdraw_ , eyes sliding to the side before they drift back to his face. “It must sound a little odd to you.”

Not... exactly.

“My name’s Togo Hifumi,” she says, voice quiet. “Kitagawa-kun is...” Togo hesitates, as if searching for the right word. “...an acquaintance. You seem to know him more than me. You... _did_ call him by his first name, so I feel it’s okay to talk to you.”

Akira frowns, but he’s not angry. Not in the least. “Do you know where he is?”

She folds her arms across her chest, leans back softly. “I was hoping you did. He’s been acting strange lately, and I was thinking you may know something,” a pause. “You and Kitagawa-kun are friends, yes?”

His shoulders lift in a weak shrug, eyes sliding to an imaginary spot on the floor. “Something like that.”

For a friend, there was a lot of secrets between them. The strong denial Yusuke showed in the face of Madarame’s abuse, the deeper secrets of the spirit world, just... _Yusuke_ in general was a mystery. He wasn’t human, obviously, but the barrier between them was stronger than the whole kitsune mess.

Then again, Yusuke knew as much about Akira, as Akira knew about Yusuke. He did not know about his parents’ strictness nor the reason why he was at Shujin in the first place.

In the long run, neither had much room to talk.

Though Yusuke went out of his way to help Akira, Ryuji, and Ann. Only a friend would do that – not an acquaintance. They _were_ friends, but they knew very little about one another.

And it was frustrating.

“But you don’t know where he is either,” Togo says. It’s not a question.

Akira shakes his head slowly. Yusuke is avoiding him, and it shouldn’t hurt as much as it did.

“Um, I don’t know if this would help, but...” she clears her throat when her voice catches. “I think he will come back to you, that you’ll see each other again.” he must do a poor job of hiding his confusion. “Maybe... he just needs time alone. Kitagawa-kun kept to himself in class, but he was the student that pulled through. Something tells me he’ll do the same for you.”

In the end, it came down to Yusuke needing personal space... if Togo’s words were anything to go by. He appreciates it though. He wasn’t expecting Togo Hifumi, the esteemed “shogi queen”, to be quiet and well-mannered. A queen was a ruler, and he pictures someone with a no-nonsense attitude, a woman who had little tolerance for the weak but harboring a want to protect her people.

Togo Hifumi is just a student like him and everyone else at Kosei and Shujin combined..

She continues, “For now, maybe you should take it slow, focus on studies. Something tells me you’ll see him again when he’s ready.” a pause. “When you both are.”

He can’t fight back the tiny small that tugs at his lips. “It sounds like you know him more than you’re letting on.”

Togo’s face takes on a rosier hue, and she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “I-I... we’re only classmates.”

“If you say so,” he says. “Thanks...”

And she gives a smile that is purely hers, not like the smile Yusuke gave when he took on her appearance. “I know it can be frustrating, but just be patient and things will work out.”

As it was, he had no leads on Madarame, and unless Yusuke walked back into his life he was no better than the average student at Shujin.

May as well play the role, reluctant or not.

“I should be going,” Togo says, placing the board in her lap.

He stands, legs stiff from sitting for what feels like hours. “Maybe next time you can teach me how to play.”

“But...” she hesitates, teeth digging into her lower lip. “You could always learn online. I’m not good at teaching...” There’s something there, he realizes, but he knows too little to make assumptions. And Togo’s discomfort is suddenly tangible. “Um, would you mind telling me your name?”

...Oh. Had he forgotten? “I’m Kurusu Akira,” he says.

“Kurusu Akira...” she repeats, tasting the name before the smile returns to her face. Her head dips, bowing as much as her seated position will allow. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yeah...”

And his mind travels back to Yusuke, at the thought of laying low, avoiding the spirit world... He could fall back on the midterm preparations, bury his mind and channel his boredom into focus for his studies.

But he walks back to the station with Togo Hifumi in a comfortable, mutual silence. They take a separate cart with the promise to meet again.

And Akira promises himself that he’ll wait, that he’ll _try_ to focus on the mundane tasks – school, café work, studying, visiting Ryuji and Shiho with Ann...

Everything would repeat itself, he realizes. Only this time, Kamoshida was nowhere in the picture, Ryuji wasn’t there, he and Ann had become friends, and Akira had something – someone – to look forward to.

But as the train pulls up to the next stop, Akira wonders just how long, _if_ he can pretend that another world did not exist within his own. And was it possible to return without the help of a kitsune?

He realizes how much he wants to help Yusuke. If Akira could track down whatever was controlling Madarame, maybe he could make change too.

\--

Akechi’s patience is hanging by a thread. All things considered, he’s thankful for its sturdiness.

“I could tell your prosecutor that you’re here,” Kamoshida threatens from behind the bars. He’s angry, Akechi notes, but less angry than when he was first brought in. The fighting fire has all been snuffed out, leaving behind stubborn ashes that refused to scrub off the interior of the extinguisher.

It was amusing to see such change. People truly were fragile without being driven by their desires.

He holds the plastic baggie of leaves and twigs in a gloved hand. “With all due respect, Niijima-san isn’t someone who will take a criminal’s word over mine,” Akechi says, amusement sparking through him as Kamoshida turns away like a child. He gives the bag a small shake, its contents jumping n surprise. “Have you figured it out yet? I gave you three days, as promised.”

“No,” Kamoshida scowls. “I don’t know what your obsession is with that garbage. Tracked in mud, forgot to clean it up,” he gives a half-hearted wave of his hand. “Quit wasting my time.”

“ _You’re_ wasting _mine_ ,” he pauses. “These leaves aren’t from any trees that grow in this area. Given their smell and texture, I’d say they must have been a day old before I found them. Had they been taken from overseas, you probably would’ve pressed them in a book for safekeeping. But something tells me you’re more likely to step on flowers than admire them.”

“What the hell are you getting at?” Kamoshida’s voice rises in pitch, glare sharp. “You got my answer, so what’s your _point_?!”

“That you’re hiding something.”

Silence spills into the room.

Reluctance is a key thing to look for when interrogating someone. And now, it snags more noticeable than ever before. Even in the way Kamoshida’s gaze scans the rotting floor of the cell, his hesitance is almost tangible.

“I’m not going to jeopardize you if you’re honest with me.”

“Oh yeah?” Kamoshida challenges. “And what more can they do?”

Akechi’s shoulders lift in a shrug. “That’s classified information even I’m not allowed to know of. So again,” he slips the bag under the bars with his foot. “Are you ready to talk?”

Kamoshida doesn’t move.

Akechi waits.

There’s the sound of scuffling as Kamoshida drags his feet to the bag.

It cracks loudly as he pulls it open.

Twigs and leaves spill into his palm quietly.

“It smells familiar,” he finally says, grinding a leaf between his fingers. The rolled green remnants fall in tiny clumps to the floor, into his hand.

Akechi hums thoughtfully. More beating around the bush, huh? Very well then. “They _were_ in your room—”

“—back to this shit again?—”

“—But they _shouldn’t_ smell familiar.”

The second thing to look for: wariness in one’s eyes. Humans each had ways of selling themselves out. Some twirled their hair, some avoided eye contact, others grew quiet. Kamoshida’s face lights up with suspicion, face scrunching into a tighter frown that Akechi’s sure it will leave a permanent crease between his eyebrows.

“And why the hell not? Maybe I have seen them before. I’ve done a lot of traveling.”

Second thing part 2: tone of voice. Kamoshida’s cornered, and he knows it.

“I don’t doubt your former career as an Olympic medalist has carried you across the countries,” Akechi says through a faux smile. “Honestly, I’m rather jealous. Being able to travel must have been quite the experience.”

Hesitance. “Yeah... that’s right. These are from out of the country.”

“They’re not from Japan, no,” Akechi agrees with a small nod. “But they’re not from the United States or Europe or Japan’s neighboring countries.”

“I don’t need to listen to this shit,” Kamoshida scrunches the remaining bits to shreads, twigs screaming _snap, snap, snap_ as Kamoshida bends their bodies in twos, threes, fours. He hurls them at Akechi where they just miss the space between the bars. “Get the hell out of my sight.”

“But you know I’m right,” Akechi presses, and he doesn’t bother to hide his smirk. “You know as well as I do that the type of tree these leaves and twigs come from does not exist.”

Time freezes.

The very atmosphere holds its breath in anticipation.

Akechi does not feel the weight pressing him into the ground, and why should he? He wasn’t the one caught.

Third thing: The look of utter defeat as the criminal confessed. From the torments he’s heard to the torments Kamoshida _admitted_ , it brings a dark satisfaction to life inside him.

A longer pause.

Then:

“What’s your point?” Kamoshida glowers. “Who the hell are you?”

Another faux smile. “You’re taking the words out of my mouth. But I could be asking _you_ the same thing. Let’s have a little quid pro quo, shall we?” he doesn’t wait for Kamoshida’s answer. “These did not come from you, but you recognized the smell and even the texture. Meaning you’ve seen them before somewhere else.”

Kamoshida leans his mouth into steepled fingers.

“They’re still fresh too. More importantly, humans cannot carry these here. In there, perhaps they could. But I know you didn’t bring them, and I have speculation to believe you had an accomplice,” a pause. Silence rises to meet him. Akechi continues, “Or rather you had a run-in with something not entirely human.”

“Oh?” and he’s up to the plate again, the glimmer of a challenge back in his eye. It’s taunting, goads him into forcing out words that would make sense to a lunatic. “Then who was this ‘thing’ that I ran into then? What left that junk in my room?”

The room suddenly feels cold, but Akechi is not intimidated – far from it. “Someone who chased the other you away. Rather, someone who wanted you to confess and turn yourself in but didn’t have the tools to aid them in the real world. So they targeted something _there_ , didn’t they?”

“You’re half-right at least,” Kamoshida sneers. “I can barely remember.”

“How about I give you a crash course on what I know?” Akechi offers, a not-so-welcome gesture. “There’s only one type of spirit that leave behind residue each time they use their powers. Consider this my half of our little deal.”

And Kamoshida admits that he is mad the instant he nods in blind agreement, curiosity and bits of anger uncaring for unforeseen consequences.

It is not Akechi’s problem.

He fishes in his pocket, retrieving a small tear-dropped shape stone. The faux smile tugs at his lips like second nature, the Magatama pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Kamoshida's face is nothing short of impatient or puzzled. It's amusing, and Akechi can almost _hear_ the gears churning in his hollow head.

"What the hell is this?" he holds out his hand anyway.

Akechi chuckles lightly. "Consider it a gift, something to seal the deal."

"Last time I made a deal, I wound up in this shit-hole," Kamoshida snaps, leering at the stone.

"A far merciful punishment than what you should have received," Akechi's demeanor crumbles to the ground. Such arrogance truly deserved justice. Not the ones that were solved with a gavel and a few words from a judge and a crowd of misguided people. He deserved a justice far less forgiving, something that would smite Kamoshida's very sin into what remained of his soul.

"So what then?" he snarls. "Are you one of them too?"

How insulting, to be placed on such a low rung. "I'm a little more omniscient than you think. Which is why you won't regret your decision."

Kamoshida scoffs, and he calls to Akechi as he turns, making his way to the door. "We'll see about that."

Yes.

Yes they would.


	11. Chapter 10

It was nearly two months since that night he first met Yusuke. And it was nearly a week since he last visited Leblanc. He busied himself with school as he promised Togo, visiting Ryuji and Shiho on occasion, helping at Leblanc when needed. As time went on, as he returned home with the disappointment of failure resting on his shoulders, he found himself avoiding shrines or anything relating to religion – especially Shintoism. He was, after all, a human; he had no way of crossing dimensions.

A part of him wondered if he’d run into Yusuke...

...but his hopes had been dashed quickly.

_[May 26 th]_

**AKIRA [15:31].** Hey.

_Failed to send._

**AKIRA [15:32].** We need to talk.

_Failed to send._

_The number cannot be reached or does not exist._

He tried calling with the pay phone (the number cannot be reached or does not exist), which confirmed he had not been blocked. But was Yusuke so petty he’d change his number after a little spat? It didn’t seem likely, and it was impossible to get into Kosei without an ID, being a prestigious, private school.

So he decided to wait.

( _“Can people set up their phones to send error messages?”_ Ann had asked.

It was unlikely, he had responded.

“ _That’s strange... I can keep an eye out for him while I’m at Rafflesia. But if he’s avoiding you, I doubt he’d want to see me.”_ )

Maybe he was spending his days in Tokyo and his nights in the other world.

Within the span of those two months, he stopped getting phone calls from his parents, stopped receiving voice messages that demanded he return their call. He knew avoiding them would result in a larger punishment, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The truth was, it hurt that Yusuke was most likely staying away from the places Akira would frequent. He can’t help but blame himself, having crossed the line by prying his way into Yusuke’s personal life.

...Staring at the red error message on his screen wasn’t helping.

‘ _Sojiro could probably use help downstairs’_ , he thinks as he pulls himself up. All the while Morgana snoozes away, curled up at the foot of his bed. The version he saw in the spirit world seemed like a faraway memory. He wishes the second trip with Yusuke would have implanted some translator into his brain for spirits. Alas, the only noises he heard from Morgana were varying meows and other cat noises.

Well.

He could worry about that some other day.

And Akira hears the voices before stepping into the body of the café.

“I wasn’t expecting someone of your caliber to visit a place like this.”

“You’ll have to thank one of my students. They spoke highly of you.”

He’s either hit with a stroke of luck or misfortune; there was no in-between. Whatever it is, it makes the blood pound harshly against his brain.

Sojiro has two faces when he’s dealing with customers, 1) some hybrid of pleased and amused, 2) a barely restrained eye roll as his mouth curved into a near-permanent frown. Out of courtesy, he does not give this customer Face no. 2, but he’s teetering dangerously. It wasn’t difficult to pick up the absolute bull that reeked from the customer’s words.

Akira’s only heard their voice once, their name vehemently defended by Yusuke. There’s a sudden chill that blooms from his heart, traveling along his veins when his gaze meets Madarame’s. His hand grips the adjacent door frame.

“Oh, it’s you!”

He feels Sojiro’s eyes bore into him. “You know him?”

“Why of course,” Madarame laughs softly, and Akira can almost see the plastic chipping off his equally fake smile. “He’s a close friend of the student I mentioned. In fact,” and Madarame looks directly at him (‘ _Don’t trust him. He’s a liar, he abused Yusuke, he’s a fraud_ ’). “He had something to tell you. How would you feel accompanying me on a stroll?”

“Hold on. He isn’t—”

“I’ll go,” Akira rises to the offer. “I have a message for him as well.” Though his stomach craves the morning brew, he pushes it down, retreating to his room.

He can still hear them downstairs, struggles to pay them no mind. His main focus this morning would be gathering information from Madarame, shape his own words into well-covered lies that would reel in a truth. He didn’t need to know about his relationship with Yusuke, how much he _knew_ about Yusuke.

Morgana plops down in his path the minute he’s dressed.

“What’s wrong?”

“ _Meow_!”

Well that answered everything.

But then he leaps up onto the table, poking at Akira’s schoolbag with a paw.

Akira blinks at him. “You want to come with me?”

“ _Mraaw—!_ ”

“Ssh, okay, fine,” Akira shushes, dumping notebooks and textbooks alike to make room for his little princess. Voice hushing, he says, “You’re worried about him too?”

He leaves an opening the size of his fist for Morgana to peer through. Akira’s breath leaves him in a heavy exhale, tugging the strap over his shoulder with mild difficulty. “From now on, we’re restricting your sushi intake.”

Sojiro eyes them suspiciously. “Hey,” he calls as Akira crosses the room to Madarame. “You don’t have any plans today?”

“No,” he lies. He can read through Sojiro’s question, knows the true meaning behind his words. But he’s fine.

“...Alright then,” he grabs the mug Madarame abandoned on the counter. “Thanks for stopping by.” _Come back anytime._ Except it is the opposite of what Sojiro wants.

If Madarame notices the chip in his words, he does not bring it to light. “I should be thanking you for the coffee. Your café is quite comfortable.” Akira doesn’t look back at Sojiro, listening for Leblanc’s door to close behind them. “You don’t live at the school?”

They veer to the left, away from the bustle of activity. “Shujin doesn’t have dorms.”

“Oh?” Madarame looks genuinely surprised. “That surprises me. I would think an esteemed school such as Shujin would provide living arrangements for their students.”

Morgana shifts in his bag. Akira recognizes the turn that leads to the small shrine. “What did you need?”

They stop. He catches sight of the kitsune statue at the center of the altar. It watches, listening carefully in a stare frozen in stone that reminds him of Yusuke. He wonders if it was Yusuke who left it there, or someone else.

“I have a few questions,” he responds, tucking his hands into his sleeves. “As you know, Yusuke is living with me. He’s been coming home late and then there are nights when he does not return at all. Selected students are given the opportunity to participate in the late June exhibit at Ueno. Yusuke signed up, but I have yet to see his finished painting. I was wondering if he was making progress with you, or if you were serving as his distraction.”

Akira meets his eyes. Madarame is unlike Kamoshida, selecting calculated words in hope of pressuring an answer. “Yusuke works diligently.” and it’s not a complete lie.

“He does?” Madarame regards him with incredulity twisting his brows. “Have you seen the painting?”

He shakes his head. “I haven’t asked. He works better when he doesn’t have someone bothering him.” Something tells him to leave out the whole not seeing him for nearly two weeks thing.

But that’s when he sees the slip, a flash where the incredulity is replaced with impatience and irritation. “Of course,” Madarame recovers. “I know the type of person he is. Apologies for the silly question.”

“It’s fine.”

Akira can almost feel a distortion in the atmosphere, a warning that things could go south if he so much as uttered the wrong words. He didn’t know Madarame, but he didn’t know how much Madarame knew about him. He can believe Yusuke wouldn’t have said anything too personal – he liked his secrets – but he kept his guard up.

He follows Madarame’s gaze to the kitsune idol. “I can trust you to tell me if you see him again, yes?” out of the corner of his eye, Madarame holds out a business card, contact info stapled in bold ink beneath the characters of his name. “I’m only worried for his safety. He left searching for inspiration. I hope he finds it soon.”

His reluctance is difficult to shove down, but somehow he manages to stow it. He accepts the card with both hands, staring numbly. “Thank you,” Akira forces out, carefully sliding it into the opening of his bag. Morgana’s fortunately smart enough to remain quiet.

“Take care, Kurusu.”

Then it is as if the earth itself holds her breath.

From Madarame’s sleeve tumbles out an intricate piece of jewelry, a bronze crusted bracelet with a blue gray gem. It’s well polished despite its smoky hue. Akira reaches for it before he can process what he’s doing. His fingers graze that very stone—

—and it sings loudly against the pavement as he drops it.

Cold. No – it was _frigid._

“Be careful with that!” Madarame plucks it from the pavement, glaring harshly at Akira. “Don’t take things that aren’t yours!”

And perhaps the shock at his about face brings Madarame to his senses.

“I-I’m terribly sorry,” he says as he slips it back on his frail wrist. “This is an extremely important gift from one of my former students. I... don’t know what I’d do if it were to break from such carelessness.”

Morgana shifts. Akira swallows, voice crammed into the pit of his lungs.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to return home.”

He leaves before Akira can speak, the clap of his footsteps echoing in the void air. The business card suddenly feels like a stone. He wants nothing more than to tear it up – and perhaps he will, but...

The bracelet.

What was its significance to Madarame? A simple piece of jewelry would not have warranted such a reaction...

And in that brief moment he glimpsed it, something had felt off.

“ _Mraw_!!”

Akira steadies himself as Morgana lunges from the bag, hurrying to the altar. “Morgana?” he calls when the cat paws at the idol. He doesn’t need a translator to know to pick it up. Baked by the sun, the kitsune is warm, stone prickling at his palm.

He never had the chance to ask Yusuke where this came from.

Their surroundings ripple, the sky’s blue shell cracking to reveal the cloudy coloring of the other world. The buildings dissolve into the ground, leaving a familiar clutch of trees in their wake. Blades of grass brush his shoes, the familiar folds of mist spill onto the ground, cloaks whatever lies in the distance.

The altar too is swallowed by a wrinkle in the atmosphere. Morgana’s form wavers until it takes the form of that monster cat. His large, cartoonish eyes narrow up at Akira. “Madarame’s definitely up to something,” he says without preamble. “You saw how he reacted with that bracelet too, right?”

Akira can only nod. The forest stares back.

“Hm?” Morgana turns. “Oh, that? What, did he not tell you?”

“Tell me...?”

“Geez, guess he really didn’t want you to know,” he almost sounds dejected, but Akira doesn’t have time to ponder why. “I brought you here because you looked serious about stopping Madarame. That argument you had with Yusuke the other night told me everything.”

The pieces begin to lock in place. It made _perfect_ sense. “He helped us. It’s only fair to return the favor.”

“Favor?” Morgana echoes, ear twitching. “Yusuke’s your friend. There’s nothing wrong with admitting that.”

They had a very weird friendship if that was the case...

“Come on. He’s not going to be happy with this, but I can tell you’re not going to take ‘no’ for an answer.” Morgana leads them closer to the maw of the trees. “I like that about you though. It’s that type of attitude that can make change.”

The shade of the forest nearly blots out the sky, light trickling in between the cracks of leaves and branches. To Akira, it is an ordinary forest that stretches into an eternity. Petrichor stings his nose, fills his mouth with a scent that is earthier than Ueno and Inokashira park combined. The silence perches on his shoulders, holds its head high so it looms over him, makes him feel smaller. Here, he’s no better than the insects scrabbling in the dirt of the forest floor.

Morgana watches him carefully, looks back over his tiny shoulder to make sure Akira’s still following.

‘ _This is where Yusuke came out and attacked Kamoshida... But Kamoshida came out of here too._ ’

“Hey, stay close!” Morgana calls, hustling back to his side. “It’s very easy to get lost here – especially for a human.”

“Where are we going?”

The forest gives its first sigh of life in the form of rustling treetops.

“Don’t worry about them,” Morgana brushes off. “All types of spirits inhabit these woods, but for as many that are dangerous, there are friendly ones as well.” He draws to a halt at a break in the path, and the atmosphere is back to holding its breath. “Remember: We can’t confront a spirit unless we have enough information. They’re twice as hard to track down when we’re going off rumors instead of facts. Luckily, I have a plan.”

Uh-oh.

Akira blinks at him. “Really?”

“Don’t sound too excited!” Morgana snaps as he bounces on the balls of his feet. Paws...? Whatever. “I’m only trying to help.”

He has to resist the urge to pet him when he’s acting like this. Something tells him the gesture would be unwelcomed. “Alright, let’s hear it then.”

“...What?”

“The plan?”

“Oh, right,” and he clears his throat, folds his tiny arms across his tiny chest. “Madarame had more than one student. It took a while for me to get the names from Yusuke, but you should never doubt someone like me.” (‘ _I don’t..._ ’) “We have one person to look for: Nakanohara Natsuhiko.”

The name does not strike any chords of familiarity. Yusuke had not mentioned, if at all, any of the students by name. Getting him to talk about Madarame alone was like pulling teeth.

And then Morgana brandishes a curved sword, the silver of the guard and blade catching in the bits of light that shine down on them. Akira shouldn’t be surprised when Morgana tosses a dagger at his feet.

“Cover me, alright?” he says.

It’s light in his palm, the black hilt fitting comfortably. Curiously, he traces his finger along the blade. He blinks, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. The pad of his finger is unmarred.

“Something wrong?”

Only to Yusuke would the phrase “My cat gave me a knife” make sense... and even then, that was stretching it. For as odd as Yusuke was, surely _this_ was a bit out of his league. And more importantly, where on earth did Morgana keep these weapons?

He holds the dagger at his side. “It’s fake.”

“Well, yeah. Did you expect me to give you a real one?”

Somehow, Morgana was more difficult than Yusuke.

Just a little.

Akira follows suit, uncaring that he’s half-fast walking, half jogging. If he tripped and fell, a plastic knife couldn’t very well break his skin.

There are a bundle of questions rushing through his head with the majority focusing on Morgana. But what was he supposed to do with a fake? Surely whatever hostile spirits lay in wait knew the difference between a real and a false one. And if not, they would surely feel it.

Except Morgana was relying on him. Morgana, who had tried to defend him from Kamoshida. Morgana, the stray cat he found one stormy night in the streets of Yongen. Morgana, who wasn’t 100% a cat, but a supernatural being.

So Akira would protect him as best he could.

“Hey,” and Morgana halts, holding the sword out to his right. “Is that who I think it is...?”

He looks, expecting Yusuke – kitsune, human, whatever – or even Madarame. Akira blinks hard, wishes the spirit would disappear in between the second he closes and opens his eyes.

Ryuji doesn’t look at him, doesn’t turn his head as Akira calls his name.

“Don’t bother,” and it’s the most sympathetic he’s heard Morgana thus far. “He’s an ikiryo, meaning his spirit— hey! What’re you doing?”

His hand grasps at thin air, phasing through Ikiryo Ryuji’s shoulder, falling into his arm. Akira can only watch quietly as the spirit disappears with each step. He feels the trickle of panic as Morgana places a hand ( _paw_?) on his leg. “Did I...?”

“You probably woke him up,” he sighs. “Ikiryo are spirits of people who are alive. Think of it like astral projecting: Ryuji’s body is back in the other world while his soul was here going for a little walk,” Morgana pauses, bringing a paw to his chin thoughtfully. “Still, it’s weird to see someone like him in this neck of the woods. Guess he’s having a hard time if his spirit is seeking solace here of all places.”

A spirit who wandered because their feelings and desires were conflicted... It was like he was staring at Ryuji in the hospital bed all over again. Nothing fit, things were as they shouldn’t’ be.

Except they were... but then they weren’t.

Kamoshida was where he belonged while Ryuji and Shiho were not.

Morgana leads them deeper into the forest, and he glimpses more people – _ikiryo_ – strolling through the forest, their feet swallowed by the mist. Akira stares, they stare right through him.

“How’re you holding up?” Morgana looks at him, sword nowhere in sight. “Need to rest?”

He feels the confusion tug at him.

“Humans can tire out easily here. It’s also why nobody seems to remember anything when they return to the real world.”

“Others have been here before me?”

Then Morgana’s looking at him as if he’s just kicked a puppy. “Is that really so shocking? Don’t let it get to your head; you’re not the first human visitor,” he gives a small wave with his paw. “Come on, I think he’s near.”

Akira feels his heart leap into his throat. A flat, papery-like _thing_ is plastered to Morgana’s back, the red swirls on its body spin quizzically. Closer inspection reveals tiny arms and legs poking from its round body. “Morgana.”

He whips around. “What—”

“There’s something on you,” he hesitates to brush it off. “What do I—”

“—Ugh, again?” and his little arms scrabble futilely at his spine. “Alright, ride’s over, get off!”

“What...” Akira blinks. “What is it?”

Morgana throws himself on his belly, tumbling like a log again and again, spatting curses and insults all the while. The entire display is like something out of a cartoon that Akira’s being forced to watch. A large animated cat ( _his_ cat) with a head much too large, doing barrel rolls that would make planes jealous just to get a stubborn piece of paper off his back. Was this _really_ happening?

To help Morgana or put an end to the embarrassing display, Akira crouches, stills Morgana with a firm hand, and begins to peel off the creature like a bar code sticker. Its body is malleable, folding like a wet paper towel over his fingers before it struggles away, fluttering to the ground like a leaf.

“Thanks...” Morgana says as it dissolves back into the earth, springing to his feet. “Most of those guys are harmless, but they get heavy after a while. And if we’re gonna confront Nakanohara, I need as much maneuverability as possible.”

He runs the pad of his thumb over his fingertips. They’re... _cold_. “I see.”

It is impossible to hear silence, but Akira _does_. He feels the shift when the branches and leaves halt their duet in the stilled breeze, when the mist stops running its fingers through the grass, its breath stilling. There’s a looming animosity that prickles his nerves, intensifying as his eyes rake over their surroundings.

Perhaps in the spirit world, it was easier to tune oneself to nature.

...Yeah, right.

“There’s more of them...” Morgana says distantly. Ikiryo wander into their path, avoiding their eyes as they keep their head straight, staring unseeing into the folds of the trees. “Just what is going on in your human world...?” his words suspend, head snapping to the right. “Akira! I think that’s him!”

He follows Morgana’s gaze. There’s a young man in a suit, his sad eyes framed by glasses. All the while, the spirits move silently, paying no mind to a talking cat and his human. But Nakanohara bristles as they approach. “Wha-What do you want, bakeneko?” he stammers.

“Bakeneko...?” Akira echoes.

Morgana ignores him. “At ease, Nakanohara.”

He slowly, _slowly_ uncurls from himself. “You know my name?” he asks timidly.

A nod. “We have some questions for you,” he continues. “Someone you know is in danger and we want to help him.”

“I... I...”

Morgana turns to Akira, and he notices the sword is nowhere in sight. He’s irritated, it seems. “This is getting us nowhere. I’ll keep talking to him, see if I can get any more info. You mind keeping a lookout?”

“For what?” Akira finds himself asking.

“Staying in this forest too long is dangerous for us too. You’ll hear it rattling its chains before you see it.”

 _Chains_? “That doesn’t sound reassuring…” but he begins backtracking anyway.

“Don’t go too far!” Morgana calls, facing Ikiryo Nakanohara when he begins speaking in that meek voice of his. Was someone as tiny as Morgana really that terrifying of a spirit?, Akira wonders. Another one of those papery creatures manifests from thin air, attaching itself to Morgana’s back quietly... Its red swirl spins innocently.

Akira chooses to say nothing.

At the crack of day, it seems there are less Ikiryo. If Ikiryo were spirits astral projecting, did that mean these people were simply napping? He shouldn’t be so shaken from seeing Ryuji – but he is. Ryuji Back Then had a face that expressed a variety of emotions, wore his heart on his sleeve. Ryuji Now struggled to smile for Akira and Ann

(but Akira saw the crack in the mask)

and Ikiryo Ryuji was just... devoid of feeling as he wandered aimlessly.

It wasn’t only unnatural – it was disturbing.

For a soul, they behaved very soulless.

Mist, mist, and more mist... He treads through, inhales, and swallows it. The spirit world was truly unsettling, masking creatures in a layer of haze or shrouding them in the clutches of trees and greenery. To them, he wonders if the mist is a comfort, if it is no different from the very air all living beings breathed in on earth.

But he is still bothered by the voice.

Since stepping into the world with Morgana, it failed to return to his mind. He can’t make heads or tails of the ‘vow’, and try as he might, he only succeeds in conjuring up a flash of the dark face. The booming echo that pounded against his brain, the one that knew of his decision, had all but disappeared. Had it not been for the excruciating pain that numbed his body that first time, he would have written it off as a trick of the demon Kamoshida’s power.

But it wasn’t. The burning had been too real.

Frustration twirls within him. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem too eager to return to the inside of his head. And Akira supposes he could ask Morgana, _could_ have asked Morgana or even Yusuke during the second visit.

Why hadn’t he?

Because it wouldn’t have been right. It had been his burden, his puzzle to solve – not theirs. When he had more answers, maybe then...

He can still make the vague outline of Morgana and Ikiryo Nakanohara when it happens.

The forest quivers, the sky shudders, and tucked somewhere in the distance he hears _chains_ swishing together. It weaves through the trees, chilling him down to his very core. The spirit world lacked a set temperature, but the cold digs its fingers into his skin.

Something wasn’t right.

Quickly, he toys with the idea of calling out to the voice that broke into his thoughts. It had been so willing to reach for him when Kamoshida attacked, but it would let Akira be consumed by the unknown. Placing blind faith was reckless, but so was wandering around a forest where the dead roamed and the living were unwelcome.

He waits...

...

Waits

...

 _‘Of course not’_ , he thinks bitterly.

He pivots, searching for the _thing_ attached to the noise. There’s a swell of panic that bubbles in the pit of his stomach that he struggles to push down, moving himself closer to the firm trunk of a nearby tree. The bark bites him through the fabric of his shirt as he presses against it.

Against a cloak of fog, he is no better than someone blind.

There’s a pattern.

Shuffling, the singing of chains, hurried footsteps.

The hilt of the dagger digs into his palm.

It nears closer.

Fake or not, it was all he had. Knees set, legs bent, body angled for the right lunge.

And if this didn’t work, well—

—he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

A dark blur zips into his peripheral vision. He’s given the second he needs to whip around the trunk, firmly plunging the dagger blindly into where the gut of its victim should be.

There’s the crash of metal against metal, and Morgana falls on his rear, sword raised weakly from its last-minute parry. “Ow!” he shrieks, rubbing at his chest with his free paw. “I come to get you and this is the thanks I get?”

“Sorry,” Akira says hastily, reaching down to pull Morgana to his feet. There’s no stab wound. The knife feels like lead in his now trembling grip, heart in his throat. He almost stabbed— “I didn’t know it was you.”

Morgana snorts. “Clearly. And hey, next time you see a kodama on me, could you brush it off instead of walking away? I told you those things get heavy.”

He finds himself staring at the weapons, gaze flickering from Morgana’s bootlegged scimitar to his cheap prosthetic dagger. When the blades made contact, he heard it – _metal_. Not the noise that was made when kids swung toy swords at one another, plastic blades parrying with one another. And yet as he runs his finger against the knife tip once more, it comes back unmarred.

... _What_? “...What?” he says vapidly.

“Are you done staring?” Morgana’s voice snaps him out of his trance. His ears are plunged into the sounds of swishing chains in a quiet forest. Right. That creature was still out there. “I got all the info we needed from Nakanohara’s soul. Let’s stop wasting time here and get going!”

Akira still glances anyway. “How? It’s coming from where we came in.”

And there’s a twinkle in Morgana’s eye, the smirk fissuring across his face. Arrogant, confident – it was not different from Yusuke’s. Maybe it was a spirit thing... “Heh, you humans can be so pessimistic. Never underestimate the power of a bakeneko.”

He reaches back, withdraws that kitsune idol from... somewhere, and holds it out to Akira.

The chains rise in tempo.

Slowly, or maybe it _feels_ slow, the idol’s eyes slide open, yellow slits gazing back sharply.

“If we’re gonna run, it has to be now!”

He doesn’t hesitate.

The chill from earlier leaves his spine, fingers grazing the smooth surface of the kitsune’s head. He feels the world drain from beneath him, above him, _around_ him. Morgana’s cartoonish features return to normal. Trees are swapped out in a blur of green and brown for brown and gray, evolving into buildings. The forest floor becomes hardened concrete, and the dull color of the sky fizzes into the familiar blue.

Yongen Jaya’s afternoon light pokes at his eyes.

Home.

His breath leaves him in a heavy, shuddering sigh. Morgana leaps into his line of sight, dropping the idol from his mouth. “ _Mraw..._ ”

“Still can’t understand you...” Akira mutters. He grabs the kitsune figure, turns to deposit it in his bag—

—Ann stares back with wide eyes, mouth agape.

“ _Meow!_ ”

Akira blinks at her. “Uh... hi.”

She points at him, at Morgana, back to him, finger trembling. “Y-You... You just appeared out of _thin air_...” she starts. “...and all you can say is ‘hi’?!”

He scrambles to his feet, holding out his hands as if to calm her. “Not so loud.” tucked in a less popular section of Yongen or not, the walls had eyes. Akira cycles through excuses in his head, but eventually draws up a blank. It was impossible to cover.

“What’s going on?” she demands, quieter.

Akira looks to Morgana helplessly.

“Hey!” she waves her hand in his face. “Aren’t you going to tell me?”

“This way,” he says, opening his bag for Morgana. Sojiro wouldn’t mind if he brought a friend over. “You said you wanted to see Leblanc.”

Ann looks at him with incredulity. “Yeah, but... Is it okay to talk there?” she follows closely.

“Have a better idea?”

She huffs.

They walk in pressing silence; Morgana’s weight does _not_ help. Akira pushes open the door to Leblanc, Sojiro looking up at the sound of the bell. He prepares himself for the barrage of questions about Madarame...

“Is this a friend of yours?”

...or about Ann. That works too.

She smiles, bowing slightly out of courtesy. “Hello! I’m Takamaki Ann,” she says before glancing to Akira. “This guy needed help with his homework after snoozing in class yesterday, so that’s why I’m here.”

“I wasn’t sleeping in class,” Akira says quickly. He was _daydreaming_ ; there was a difference.

“Hmm...” Sojiro doesn’t seem convinced, but his expression softens when he looks to Ann. “Well, make yourself at home, Ann-chan. Can I get you anything?”

She leers at the menu, humming thoughtfully. “There’s a lot to choose from...” she says. “But I should help him out first.”

“He appreciates it.”

Akira gives him a look. “I’m right here,” he sighs, defeated.

“It was nice to meet you!”

He can feel Morgana rolling around in his bag, no doubt recognizing the familiar noises of Leblanc. It doesn’t surprise him when Morgana practically _leaps_ free the instant the zipper is pulled back. He gestures to the couch for Ann, who wastes no time to survey his room.

Yusuke’s drawings are nowhere to be seen, but his snacks are still lined on the work desk.

...He hadn’t eaten that morning.

Maybe Yusuke wouldn’t notice if a few Jagariko sticks were missing...

“So this is your room?” Ann muses. “Yusuke’s right; it is kind of bland. Do you go out much?”

...And now he was going to consume the whole container of Jagariko out of spite just for that comment. “I haven’t had time.”

“Well, if you appearing out of nowhere has anything to do with it, then yeah...” Ann huffs, plopping down on the couch. She reaches down to scratch Morgana, who brushes up against her feet affectionately. “Honestly, I’m having a hard time believing what I saw, but...” she shrugs. “...I know I wasn’t seeing things. Do you do that often? The whole disappearing and reappearing thing? And _how_ do you do it?”

He sits back in the chair, finishing one stick before deciding salad flavor tastes like compressed Italian dressing and too much lettuce. “I’ve only been there three times now.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “There?”

“The other world.”

Morgana hops up on the furniture, meowing before butting his head against Ann’s arm. What’s got _him_ so affectionate? But he stops purring when her eyes go wide, a mirror to the shocked expression she had from earlier. “Other world?”

Akira says nothing. This was beginning to sound like something out of a fantasy book.

“Wait, wait...” she gives a brief shake of her head. “You mean you travel to somewhere else and just appear out of nowhere when you want to come back?”

He hesitates, not because it’s hard to explain, but because it’s so outrageous. Ann is talking to a crazy person. “It’s… not easy to explain; I don’t fully understand it either. At first I thought it was all in a dream...”

“...but it’s not.”

“No. It exists, and I have no business meddling in it.”

“Then why were you? And _how_ do you do it?”

Yusuke wouldn’t appreciate any of this. He was already hesitant bringing Akira that day. How would he react to Ann finding out? But Akira had screwed up, and he can tell the truth without throwing Yusuke under the bus. “I don’t know,” he starts, honestly. “It just happens sometimes when I visit shrines.”

“But...” she starts to fiddle with her hair. “...does this happen to anyone? If I go to a shrine, could I see this world too?”

“Maybe,” he answers honestly. “It’s not a place you want to be.”

“Huh? What do you mean...?” she pauses. “What’s there?”

Morgana looks at him too now. Akira can’t read minds, but something about Morgana tells him to be quiet, to be vague, that Ann didn’t deserve to be exposed to such a world. He swallows, the salad aftertaste of Jagariko sticking to his tongue like a film. “Nothing worthy of risking your life.”

“But it’s okay if you put yourself in danger?” she counters. But then, A dejected look falls upon her face, crestfallen. She moves her gaze to her lap, twiddles her thumbs. “You’re hiding an awful lot – I can tell. Is it... wrong to assume there’s a connection?”

He frowns, more out of confusion than irritation. “What do you mean?”

“A connection between that world and Kamoshida’s confession video,” she elaborates. “Think about it: You know just as much as me and Ryuji that video was not made by Kamoshida...”

Hmm... She was sharper than he gave her credit for.

“Maybe something came out of that world and into this one and made him do it? I don’t know... I’m not sure if I really want to know. But you just, popped out of nowhere, so I guess I’m a little frazzled...”

He nudges at his glasses, a nervous habit more than adjusting them. “Sorry.”

“Well don’t be,” Ann says, getting up from the couch. “You and Yusuke have your secrets just like anyone else. But if you’re going to keep visiting it, can you promise me you won’t get hurt? I don’t know if I can see another friend in the hospital.”

Guilt lances through him as he feels her gaze zero in on him. His mouth is dry even though he swallows. “I won’t,” he says, but the words feel stale as they leave his lips.

“Good,” but she doesn’t look convinced, the smile forced. “Otherwise I’ll have to drag you back myself.”

He coughs out a one note laugh. “Let’s hope it never comes to that.”

Her head dips in a weak nod. “Yeah...”

They stand in silence, unsure of what to do next. He doesn’t want to talk about the other world, knowing it would feed Ann’s curiosity. She would learn the truth about Yusuke, about the demon Kamoshida, maybe even Morgana if they continued. “You still want coffee?” he offers, hoping it changes the subject.

“Sure… It’d be a waste to come all this way and not have anything,” she finally says. “By the way, have you seen him at all? Since we last talked?”

Akira does not meet her gaze then, managing a small shake of the head. He tries not to flinch when Ann’s expression falls into something that is sympathetic.

It is complete, lying by the window to bake in the sunlight to dry.

And despite the hours – the _weeks_ – he put into painting and restarting and painting again, he wants to do nothing more but drive a palette knife through its heart. The composition is balanced, a unique blending of darker hues and the highlights of light slanting across the water of the painted lake. It’s a wonderful piece, and he absolutely hates it.

Yusuke doesn’t tell Madarame that it’s complete, instead slipping through the front door and ducking away from the public eye.

A white body, nine tails, black-tipped ears and paws... That is what he is. Even in the real world, it is easier to move in his natural form than it is as a human. He didn’t have to worry about money or bumping into rude people on the train. But without the energy of the spirit world, he felt each pull at his heart.

The blue balls of fire that accompany him as he prowls when the moon is high are weak, a pitiful spark compared to the blaze they once were. He can still see where to go, still remembers to douse their feeble bodies when humans breach his line of sight. For as much as he dislikes the humans, he does not want to lead them astray.

But he didn’t need the _kitsunebi_ to lead anyone astray, did he?

Inokashira is a new world at night.

The whispers that skate across the lake sound different, the air is crisper, and the wind is colder. He wants to stay here or even at the park in Ueno. Being surrounded by nature was calming.

Then there was the matter of humans during the day time.

It is instinct that brings his head up, ears twitching in the direction of the unnatural noise. Belly to the ground, he watches closely as a young boy with dark hair sits down on the bench with a heavy sigh. The plaid of his pants is something he’s seen on Akira one time too many. The human leans back, staring up at the star-peppered sky before closing his eyes.

...Did he plan to sleep here? How strange.

But he glimpses the first tear before the sob spasms this high schooler’s body. A muffled fist is pressed to their mouth, he utters a soft curse, swallows back the pain.

As annoyed as he is for this boy ruining the tranquility, Yusuke can’t watch anymore of this unfold.

“Huh?” the boy looks up, scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm. “I-Is someone there?”

The kitsunebi flicker out of existence and his body sheds the fox features. The grass is wet, and the dirt clings stubbornly to his palm and fingers. The dampness of the soil bleeds through the fabric of his pants right above the kneecaps. He’s without a tail and ears – _good_ – by the time he rises to his feet.

“Uh, hello.”

Yusuke doesn’t spare him a glance, dusting off his hands on his thighs.

“What were you doing in the bushes?”

He says nothing, observing quietly. The boy’s eyes have not yet swelled from the tears and rough swipes of his wrist.

“...Do you want to sit?” and he slides over anyway. “Or maybe I should go... I think you were here before me.”

“No,” Yusuke takes a seat at the other end of the bench. He doesn’t miss the downcast look that tugs at the boy’s face when Yusuke sits as far as humanly possible.

Heart-to-heart conversations were not his forte. Kitsune and human could not coexist for this reason: Spirits could never fully understand the complexity of emotion.

“Um, I’ve never seen you before,” he continues. “and your uniform... You’re not from Shujin, are you?” he pauses, likely expecting Yusuke to fill in the gap. “Though even if you were, I doubt you’d admit it. Even I’m ashamed to admit I’m from Shujin...” he sighs. “Sorry, it’s nothing. I don’t want to think about school right now.”

Yusuke’s eyebrows knit together, leaning forward on his knees, fingers steepled. “Is that what troubles you?”

“Does it matter to you?” there’s no malice in his voice. Only defeat.

“It doesn’t,” Yusuke answers honestly. “May I ask your name?”

“Uh, Mishima... Yuuki,” he says, blinking once. “You’re a little weird... I-I mean, nobody really notices me except maybe Kurusu and Takamaki-san...”

Akira and Ann?

Mishima knew them?

“Not really,” ah. He must’ve said that aloud. “I mean they’re both really nice. Kurusu was the first person I told about Kamoshida; he was the only one who asked... But I doubt they’d have enough time for someone like me.”

Yusuke’s frown deepens. “I have to disagree. Akira is a truly good person – as is Ann. You give them credit, but not enough. Ryuji too.”

“W-Wait a minute, uh...”

Oh. He hadn’t given his name, had he? “Kitagawa Yusuke.” he withholds the name of his school, omits his artist title.

“...Kitagawa-kun. You just called Kurusu by his first name. And Takamaki... and Sakamoto too,” Mishima scoots closer, just slightly. “Do you know them?”

Yusuke raises an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“Of course.” his shoulders slump, eyes averted. Yusuke must’ve said the wrong thing.

“They were victims of Kamoshida Suguru...” Yusuke continues, and Mishima’s breath catches. “...as were the rest of the volleyball and track team. And it was the same for you, or am I wrong?”

And Mishima pushes himself off the bench, trembling in frustration or fear, Yusuke cannot tell. “How do you know so much about Kamoshida, Kitagawa-kun? Did Kurusu tell you? Or Takamaki and Sakamoto?”

He lets the silence slide over them, listens to the quiet stirrings of nature amid the night. It serves a weak distraction. “They told me nothing,” the lie does not burn his tongue. There were no drawbacks from lying to someone like Mishima – not for him, at least. “I have a unique method of gathering information. And you, Mishima, are still troubled by Kamoshida. The damage he inflicted on your heart must have been severe.”

Mishima stumbles back, shaking his head viciously, hand clawing into the side of his head, as if to blot out Yusuke’s words. “Just... Please, can we not talk about this? I... I’m not a victim like them, I don’t deserve any pity, so take it back. Don’t treat me the same as Takamaki-san or Suzui—” his pupils dilate, and he clamps down on his tongue. “...I should go home.”

Ah. There it was.

“Suzui Shiho?” Yusuke offers. “She is Ann’s closest friend.”

And Mishima nods. Once. Twice. “Kamoshida went after her because of me.” (He should be surprised. But he’s not.) “Because I told her he was waiting for her in his office. And I didn’t stay behind.” Mishima exhales shakily, grasping his forearm self-consciously. “Because of me, Suzui-san’s in the hospital. It should have been me, not her...” he meets Yusuke’s eyes for the first time since Kamoshida entered the topic. “You agree... You don’t have to lie; I’d hate me too.”

“That’s enough,” his voice leaves him, sternly. Mishima wavers beneath his frown. “You did nothing wrong, Mishima.”

“But you weren’t there! I led her to him, which means I’m no better, right?”

Yusuke shakes his head. “He manipulated you, cornered you as he did Suzui-san. There was nothing in your control, and I want you to see that.”

He retaliates with a one-note mirthless laugh.

“Do you truly believe Suzui-san holds any ill will towards you?”

Mishima drops his arms. “I... Why wouldn’t she?”

“You do not give Suzui-san enough credit either. You were a victim, and though I do not know her in the way Ann does, I say with certainty that Suzui-san worried for you just as much,” he stands as well, looks down at Mishima. “She is not the type of person to harbor ill will.”

“...What do I do?” he chews on his lower lip. “I... owe her an apology. I know what you’re saying, Kitagawa-kun, but I can’t live with myself if I don’t.”

“Then go see her,” Yusuke says. “She’s waiting for you too.”

And speaking of waiting...

He’s wasted too much time here.

Yusuke turns, intent on leaving Mishima to his thoughts—

“Where are you going?”

—and he halts, keeps his back turned. “There are things I must do as well. It’s a difficult path to walk, but I will pave my way forward to reach the end.” Mishima makes a noise of confusion. A part of him doubts he will try to see Suzui-san again. But he can hope. Much like the other students, something changed in Mishima as well.

He does not detect the clap of footsteps, and the hairs on the back of his neck settle when he walks out of Mishima’s line of sight. It is too risky to switch back fully, but he’s _tired_ , and keeping his human form strains his heart.

His ears sprout from his skull, teeth sharpening, fangs poking at the insides of his lip. Nails grow into sharp claws, and he feels them poking uncomfortably in his shoes. It’s easier to walk barefoot, he thinks, so he toes them off, carries them in one hand. His tail streams behind him, swishes against the back of his legs. There’s just one; he has enough energy to hide the other eight...

For now.

The stray pebbles on the dirt path poke at the hardened soles of his feet. He pays them no mind, walking aimlessly without a destination.

Madarame surely would have seen the painting by now. Yusuke is stalling – he knows that – but it’s easier to walk and walk and walk than return home and have Madarame’s words and voice pound into his sensitive ears.

There’s a miniature altar erected near the entrance of Inokashira Park. He can, if he truly desired, visit the spirt world. But without a keystone, that would take energy.

His chest begins to burn with that familiar pain. He brings a tightened fist to his heart, claws straining the fabric of Kosei’s shirt. If he could, if he was allowed, he would tear it out, leave it to bake in the dirt beneath the morning sun. There’s no way to quell it, to still its harsh laps through his veins.

It was truly unjust. He dedicated himself to a Goddess that did not care to ease his suffering. She watched him the way one would watch a fish in an aquarium, her attention dwindling from uncaring to minor interest. But never enough to extend her hand and help soothe the suffering, no. Never.

The makeshift kamidana, in all its shinki set glory, stares back with feigned innocence.

Whoever set this up cared much for the higher beings.

Humans... had it so easy, unbound to a divine entity that threw her spirits to the wind, to do her bidding.

If he stayed in his human form long enough, he could avoid a Goddesses’ eyes.

(but it wouldn’t erase the pain)

If he abandoned his life as a kitsune, he wouldn’t be bound to ball and chain.

(except he _would_ )

If he ran away, Madarame wouldn’t be able to staple his name onto _his_ artwork.

(no one would believe a student over the teacher)

A snarl unfurls from his throat, hissing out from clamped fangs, and he swipes at the sakaki tate, the evergreen plants spill from their vase and onto the ozen. His fingers had managed to graze the lidded bottles sake O-miki bleeding onto the miniature floor, merging into rivulets that dribble down the corners of the table.

He pulls back sharply, a gasp tearing from his throat. The side of his right index finger, his palm, his entire hand is burning. He pulls it closer, inspecting the damage.

The smell of salt stings his nose before he can glimpse the leftover particles winking back in the slants of moonlight. He brushes them off with his left sleeve, teeth digging into his lip as they scrape stubbornly off his skin. There are burns, red and angry, disapproval for his reckless actions.

Punishment for disrupting a perfectly innocent offering.

‘ _How childish to let my emotions control me..._ ’ he thinks bitterly, piecing together the fallen artifacts with a carefulness one would use with broken glass.

His hands still, trembling slightly. He chances a look at the sakaki tate in his grasp, glaring as if it is solely at fault for the burns streaking his hand.

Emotions. Feelings. He let them control him. Just a brief second was all they needed for him to make a mess of the altar.

Hmm...

Perhaps his talk with Mishima coaxed out the part of him he kept buried for so long. The last time he lashed out...

The thoughts are chased from his head as he busies himself with repairing what he can. He does not touch the salt, brushing as much as he can back into the container with its lid. They would surely notice someone tampered with their hard work. Humans could be oblivious, but they weren’t stupid.

...or maybe they were, he muses bitterly. What type of fool used _salt_ as an offering?

His ears fold back against his head, and he brings his hands together, kneeling. “Forgive me,” he says quietly, reaching out with his mind as far as it would go. He tries to picture himself speaking before Inari, tries to imagine her face, brow wrinkled in disapproval.

But he feels nothing.

And the pain in his heart beats harder.

He’s wasted too much time here.

Yusuke plants his palms firmly against the ground, fingers and claws gripping loose dirt. If he closed his eyes, he could hear the vibrations of the earth’s energy. It anchored him, gave him something to feel so he could change. He feels it crackle in the air, kitsunebi floating in and out of his line of sight as they orbit around him, dancing in the currents of the night wind.

Ah. His shoes. Right.

He pinches them between his teeth (no sense returning to his human form), chances one last look at the disheveled altar, and kicks off, tearing down the path to the station.

Madarame would be at the atelier, but he could wait a smidge longer.

She brought a new bouquet of flowers a couple of days before Shiho’s release from the hospital. Their heads hung in solemn silence, bulbs drooping like a child who had been scolded for disobeying orders. Shiho’s parents hadn’t been reluctant to take her back in the least, but Ann would have thought they’d be _happier_ at the thought of their daughter back in her room.

Shiho’s mother regards the wilted vase with a disapproving look. “Do you want to take these with you?” she asks, eying the decaying brown that has begun to eat at the petals’ edges. “I can tell by looking at them... These flowers clearly weren’t meant to last for long. What was the florist thinking...?”

“Yes,” Shiho responds. Her voice is quiet as ever, avoiding the incredulity that lines her mother’s face. “Ann bought them for me…”

“Oh,” and Ann catches the way Shiho’s mother tries to withdraw, take back her words. “Pardon my rudeness, Ann-chan.”

But she shakes her head even though she could blush in embarrassment. “No, it’s okay,” she gives a rough shove against the cheer that’s supposed to be in her voice. And it must have worked or maybe Mrs. Suzui has lost interest now that she can pluck the dying stalks from the red vase.

“I do want to thank you for your help today,” she says, switching the flowers from one hand to the other to wipe away at the water that dribbles down the stems. “We deeply appreciate it; Shiho does too.” and then it’s as if Ann isn’t in the room when she turns to look at her daughter. “Your father’s waiting in the car. Surely you two can manage just fine out the building, but if you need us, we’re a phone call away.”

Shiho’s head dips in a slow nod, and there’s the sound of the flowers falling carelessly into the trash bin by the door. She waits for the click of the door before making way to the window sill. The red vase captures the fluorescent lights of the hospital room in its glass windows. It does not reflect light, absorbing it into its body to leave behind a bright, white sheen across its body.

“I’m sorry about that,” Shiho says, vase scraping against the sill softly before she brings it close.

Ann shakes her head. “They’re just stressed,” she supplies, hopes it’s a good enough excuse. “But hey, you’re finally free of this place, right? That’s gotta count for something, right?”

She hums a weak affirmative.

There’s a silence that settles between them, awkward and unnatural, stuffy like the spring days when pollen choked the air. Ann shifts her weight to one leg. “Are you okay? You seem upset...”

“I’m being transferred, Ann.”

Her lips are parted in shock. The world feels as if folds beneath her feet. “What...? What did you say?”

She knew. She _heard,_ and it shouldn’t have hurt so much, but it did. Her heart screeches in its rib cage prison, begs Shiho to say it again, say that she’s just pulling some cruel joke that they could laugh about later. Numbness stiffens her bones, bleeds into her limbs.

Shiho avoids her eyes much like she avoided her mother’s. She places the vase in her bag, the last one they had on sale that day in Rafflesia. “On sale”, meaning Hanasaki-san had given it to Ann for free.

“I’ll still be here for a few months. My parents want me to make as much use as I can of their physical therapy program. They said it was cheaper,” Shiho continues, stare glued to the crisp white sheets and light blue blanket of the bed. “My parents are worried for me. After news spread about Kamoshida, they thought it was best to start over.”

Ann swallows. “What about you? Are you really okay with this?”

Shiho hums neither a yes or a no.

She grits her teeth. “Shiho...?” she’s testing the waters while fighting back the tangle of emotions that twist among her intestines. “You know, things may start looking up at Shujin now that...”

 _Bullshit_ , and the voice sounds eerily like Ryuji. _Quit lying to her. She’s your_ friend _, isn’t she?_

None of this was fair.

Even after his arrest, Kamoshida was still affecting them, still hurting _Shiho_ , pushing her from her friends and a familiar environment.

(And then there was the matter of Akira appearing out of thing air—)

Only when Shiho attempts to sling the duffel bag over her shoulder does Ann step back in. “Let me,” she says, thankful when Shiho doesn’t protest.

“What about you, Ann?”

She fiddles with the straps, adjusts them so it’s not hanging below her waist. “Huh?”

“Will you be okay?”

No, she wants to say. Shiho is irreplaceable, the first person to treat her like a _human_ and not just some ‘quarter-breed’. But her mind drifts to Akira... to Ryuji, to Yusuke... They were friends, weren’t they? Granted she’d have to shovel her way through quadruple the testosterone, but they weren’t like the other teenager boys at Shujin. And Shiho knew this too.

“I... It’s gonna hurt like hell,” she says honestly. “You’re my best friend, and you’ve been there for me longer than anyone. I still remember when we first met... I even have the painting somewhere in my room,” she laughs lightly to herself, Shiho chipping in, voice like windchimes in a gentle breeze. “But that’s exactly why we’re going to stay in contact. And when I have time off, I’ll come see you. I’ll start saving up from my part time job and take a train out to wherever you end up.”

“You mean it?”

“Of course!” and Ann smiles through the pain. Because when she did, sometimes Shiho would too. And it was worth a smidge of hurt just to see her happy. “So just go out there and don’t look back, okay?”

Shiho looks a tad less convinced. “Ann—”

“I’ll be fine, I promise,” Ann reassures, guiding her towards the door. “So will you!”

“We... never did meet up, did we? Me, you, Sakam— Ryuji, Akira, Yusuke...” she sighs. “Sorry.”

“Hey, none of that...” and Ann does her best to drag her into a hug despite the weight of the bag on her right shoulder.

The tension leaves Shiho, sliding off like the brush of snow. “You looked so excited about it too.”

“We still have time,” Ann pulls away at arm’s length, determination stitched into each word. And she would have to tell them too. “Ryuji will be leaving soon too. So we’ll just have to make it work. Oh, and I saw Leblanc earlier! It’s perfect, and the man who works there is extremely nice.”

“Really?” a prick of hope touches Shiho’s voice.

“Yeah! Now come on, your parents are waiting for us.” Ann says as she gently pushes Shiho out the door, giggling slightly. “You’re probably sicker of this place than I am.”

Shiho doesn’t protest, smiling timidly. Her gaze lingers on the expanse of the room as does Ann’s. They wouldn’t miss it.

Ann tries not to look at the dying flowers and think of how the twisted green of the stems and mosaic of colorful petals are a mirror to the emotions she buries for Shiho’s sake. And of course, her own too.

One more week.

They promised one more week and he could walk again.

And about damn time too.

Sports called for casts, injuries that could not be mended with a simple band-aid. But the unilateral spica cast had been the absolute _worst_. It restricted his movements, leaving him completely at the mercy of the nurses in the beginning. Above all else, it had been downright _embarrassing_.

(“ _I’ve set up your room so it’d be easier to walk... You never did clean up your dirty clothes, did you?”_ )

The TV is nothing but white noise, blabbering about young idol Kujikawa Rise’s next tour. In the corner of the room, there is a part of the wall that is a different shade of white. Paint or plaster, Ryuji can’t tell, but it reminds him of the crack behind his door, of the time where the knob bit into the wall when he (or _him_ ) had swung it open in a fit of anger.

(“ _I’m sorry...”)_

His leg doesn’t hurt as much anymore. He can shift in bed without it sending spikes of pain along his spine, lancing through his brain. In the hell he had been given what felt like an eternity, it is a small respite that he gladly takes, afraid it will leave the instant he allows it to flutter from his hands.

The smaller, practical things. He grasped the larger blessings with impatient, greedy hands. But now, he’s panning for the scraps of positivity that have been sprinkled sparingly from then to now.

(“ _I’m sorry that it’s just you and me. That I couldn’t protect you.”_ )

This is stupid, he tells himself, but he does it anyway. Rolling to one side as best as the cast will allow, swinging his legs carelessly over the edge of the bed. His fingers clench around the side rail, accidentally mashes against a button that brings his bed to an upright position. But he succeeds, sitting up without the support of a hard mattress and a remote-operated bed.

(“ _I’ve started a second job in Shibuya. They can keep you here a little longer.”_ )

Ryuji’s heart hammers against his ribcage. The floor is at least a foot or two from his dangling feet, but it feels much further. If he pushed himself,

(“ _I can’t wait to have you home.”_ )

maybe he’d be able to stand. Or maybe he’d crumple to the floor in a pathetic heap that needed help getting up.

(“ _I’m so sorry...”)_

The door slides open.

“Sakamoto-kun?” the nurse crosses the room, gently nudges him back to the annoying comfort of his bed. “What are you doing? You’re going to get yourself hurt.”

Ryuji does nothing to fight back.

“You’ll have it off soon,” the bed stirs to life, leaning back as she presses one of the buttons on the remote. “Please don’t do anything reckless until then. It’s healing quickly and we wouldn’t want it to...”

Her voice is swallowed by the white noise as well. But he nods to show he’s listening, mutters an affirmative that he understands. “I’m fine, sorry, won’t happen again...”

It’s the same damn thing.

Did they really care though? If they did, wouldn’t they be more sympathetic of his mother?

But the truth is, if given the option to stay another month, he’s not sure if he’d take it.

She leaves the door ajar when she’s finished asking him if he needed anything. He doesn’t. What he wants can’t be accomplished today or tomorrow.

He just wants the damn cast gone.

He wants to be able to walk – to run – without having someone’s hand around the crook of his elbow, to hear the beat of his shoes as they ripped down the track, to feel the sweat rolling down his face, into his mouth.

And he wants to go home.

There’s another knock on his door, and he feels the impatience prickle in his throat. He said he was fine, didn’t he? Managing a grunted ‘come in’, he turns his gaze to the TV. It’s far better to look at the faces behind a glass screen than it was to look at the eyes rimmed with pity.

“Is now a bad time?”

Ryuji lurches up from the bed, head whipping so fast it lances a sting of pain straight through his spine. He gaps like a fish, words fumbling and cramming in his mind as they tumble over themselves in a dissembled line. “ _Yusuke_?!”

‘ _He looks like shit’_ , Ryuji thinks.

“You look like shit.” Ryuji says.

Dark circles drag beneath his eyes, clothing disheveled (and… was that a _leaf_ in his hair?), and posture slumped. Yusuke’s silence is worse than any biting words he _could_ have thrown at Ryuji in retaliation.

“...Uh... you okay?”

Yusuke hesitates, but slowly, agonizingly slowly, he shakes his head, avoiding Ryuji’s gaze.

Oh shit. Did he _really_ upset him? “Sorry,” Ryuji finds himself saying. “Didn’t mean it like that.”

He crosses the room, sitting in the chair Ann and Akira had used earlier. “Like what?” he asks, genuine curiosity lacing his words.

“You know, for saying... Never mind.”

At least Yusuke is looking at him now, as scrutinizing as it is. “You know, Akira’s worried about you?” Yusuke doesn’t meet his eyes, and shit, Ryuji’s so damn bad at this talking, chick-flick like moments he feels like he’s going to hurl on the spot if he has to top it off with a hug around Yusuke’s shoulders, a little pat on the back that everything’ll be alright. Hopefully he won’t have to do that. “He thinks you’re avoiding him.”

“I’m not,” Ysuuek protests weakly. “There are things that happen that you have no knowledge of. I would share them with you if I could, but it is not that simple.”

Ryuji rolls his eyes. He’s too damn tired to beat around the bush. “I’m not asking for an explanation or anythin’, but he’s your friend like the rest of us. If you wanna talk to Ann about it, then do it. But you need to see him. If not for him, then do it for me.”

Wow.

Wow, that sounded lamer in his head.

He waits for the laughter, the incredulous look in Yusuke’s eyes, but he’s met with none of that. If anything, Yusuke looks as if... “Wait, for real? You’re considering it?”

“I...” he swallows. “ I don’t know what to do yet, Sakamoto. I wish it were possible to be honest with you and Takamaki-san. But you two are driven by your curiosity. I know you will pursue me as relentlessly as Akira. For your sake, you should stay away as well.”

Ryuji finds himself frowning, an eyebrow raised. “You’re the one who came barging in here, man.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Look,” he sighs, curses the words for being so fleeting. “just tell him you’re alright. What you do after that, is up to you. Just help put his mind at ease.”

And slowly, ever-so slowly, he nods. It’s difficult to tell if the words have sunken in, breached that stubborn skull of his. “Perhaps I will,” he shifts in the seat. “I shall visit him and cut the rest of our ties.”

...What?

“That’s... not what I meant?”

“No, but it is what I will do,” Yusuke says, and the way his words fall together indicates he is done talking about this.

Ryuji can guide him to the next step, but ultimately, he can’t tell Yusuke what to do. He still feels the itch of irritation beneath his skin... or maybe that’s the damn cast. “Come on, you think that’ll help? You’re just gonna piss him off more. It’s a shitty thing to do, cutting people out like that.”

“It’s how I’ve lived my life.” Yusuke responds coolly. “I haven’t needed friends then, and I don’t need them now.”

“Come on, what’s gotten into you?”

Silence.

Boy. This was becoming awkward.

He’s no Akira (or Ann); he can’t always apply the best words and then watch back as his medicine (or lack thereof) works its magic. The most Ryuji can do is shovel half-assed words out of his... well...

“May I ask you something?”

Ryuji shrugs, staring at the moving images behind the tv screen. They feature some person, some bald man who’s running in the election this round. He never gave a shit about politics anyway.

It must be so nice to live surrounded by money, not having a care where the bills went. Someone with money could buy merchandise that piqued their interest for a day, only to pack it up and leave it next to the other dust-collectors the instant their fascination dissolved much like the sands of time itself.

“Shoot,” He finally says.

And he expects a typical Yusuke Question, asking about the artistic appeal in the freaking doorknob or the tiles on the ground. It is nether of those things. “Is there a reason you dyed your hair?”

He _doesn’t_ expect this. And he wishes he had, because it is a question that causes him to bring his fingers to his hair, feeling its coarse texture.

When he was younger, when he had partaken in his first sprint, he had fallen. He hadn’t kicked off too early, no, but it had been a miraculous stumble. His feet did a little dance of panic as they struggled to find purchase on the rough field of his middle school’s track. He still remembers the way the turf scraped away at his skin like the way a knife would drag the scales off a fish.

Above all, it was the embarrassment that stung the most. He could deal with the blood that trickled down his dry skin, he could deal with the bruises that would soon blossom over the scrapes. But he _couldn’t_ take the mixture of expressions twisting everyone’s face.

Disappointment from some, shock from others, and then there was the laughter.

He ran. When he ran, he didn’t have to think; it was easy to block out the noise so long as he kept moving.

When he had joined the track team in Shujin, he had entered a stupid bet. The first person to fail a practice run would have to do something stupid to appease to their dumb male egos. Looking back, it had all been pointless. His track mates weren’t friends – they were looking for ways to humiliate one another.

So he lost the mock race. He didn’t trip this time, but he lost. That night he had bought cheap hair bleach from one of those lame ass grocery stores. And the next day, he came in with the black roots bleached to hell and back.

But they hadn’t mocked him.

In fact, they _liked_ it, said it fit him. And though it had been a dumb bet, Ryuji had felt as if he were on top of the world in that moment. It felt as if they were _friends_ , not a bunch of kids reluctantly working together to achieve a shared goal. So, he continued to bleach it from that day on, ignoring the weird looks from his peers, the biting comments that he looked like a delinquent.

Why had Yusuke’s question made it feel like he stumbled on the track field again?

“I felt like it,” he supplies weakly. “That a problem?”

Yusuke shakes his head. “No. I was simply curious,” he responds. “I can tell Takamaki-san is not fully Japanese by looking at her. Yet it wasn’t the same case as you. I would have inquired Akira about the origins of your hair, but I decided I’d ask myself.” A pause. “Bleached and dyed hair have negative connotations among your group, don’t they?”

“My group?” Ryuji echoes. “How old do you think you are? They’re _your_ age group too, genius,” he huffs. “Anyway... Lost a bet, so I dyed it. There. That’s all you’re gettin’.”

“Then I will stop myself from prying despite what my curiosity tells me.” Yusuke says, rising from his seat. “I appreciate your honesty.”

Ryuji gaps, makes a weird sputtering noise with his mouth when the words try to rush out all at once. “That’s it?”

Yusuke looks over his shoulder, regards him with a confused frown. “Well... Yes. I have no other business here.”

“I mean you could... I don’t know, we could talk or something...” Ugh. He was _really_ lonely if he was trying to get _Yusuke_ of all people to stay. Ryuji didn’t dislike him, no, but he never knew what to say. Yusuke seemed off in his own little world, even if someone was answering a question _he_ asked. But damn, he’s tired of listening to the same thing on TV, tired of listening to the thoughts that bounce and float around in his head with nowhere to go. “You like art, yeah?”

“I do, yes...” he responds, slowly. “What about you?”

He shrugs. “Eh, it’s kinda boring.”

“I see,” he turns back to the door. “Good bye.”

“For real?”

Yusuke pause, and for a brief second, Ryuji thinks he’s going to stay or tell him to shut up or something. But he says none of those things. “I have a curfew tonight.”

“With...” the door closes. “...Akira?” Ryuji sighs heavily, shuts his eyes tight.

That. Had been exhausting.

If he didn’t have this damn cast, he would’ve gone after him, he would’ve been a bit more forceful. But as he is? The only thing he would accomplish is falling to the floor and being found by another nurse. Undoubtedly receive a lecture for all his troubles too. And what could he say? Were visitors even _allowed_ at this time?

He pushes back the blanket, runs a finger down the gritty texture of the casing. Making progress, they had said. It wouldn’t be long, they assured. Ryuji wants to shove the words back in their mouth. Even if it _did_ heal, he wouldn’t be returning to the track team any time soon.

His mind files through memories, flipping through them the way a child would leaf through pages of a complicated novel. But Ryuji never had patience for reading unless there were pictures, like manga or comic books. And yet, these memories have become a jumbled block of words save for a small picture beneath the chapter headline.

“Chapter 5: Kamoshida Fucks Up My Life”

Depicted is a poorly drawn stick figure that somehow captures Kamoshida’s obnoxious, shit-eating grin on its giant head. Lying on the ground, another stick figure, is what’s _supposed_ to be him with X’s comedically scribbled over his eyes.

And the pages after this chapter...?

Strings of question marks after question marks, the characters for future scribbled, crossed out, bolded... Future. Kamoshida had balled up his future and threw it back in his face.

His grades were average, but nothing leapt off his transcript and into the college acceptance piles. Running had been a huge part of his life – had _become_ his life. He knew each time he crossed those finish lines that running is what he wanted, something he couldn’t be put down for.

But now—

He forces himself to stop thinking, shuts his eyes tight, wants to sleep and forget peeking down memory lane.

“ _We’ll figure something out. This isn’t the end._ ” his mother had said earlier.

Ryuji has no choice but to hope she’s right, tugging the covers over his head, blotting out the light Yusuke failed to turn off.

Whatever. He’s slept with lights on before.

He’s not sure what brings him back to Kanda that evening. Maybe it was some divine being displeased that he didn’t listen to a messenger of God. Or maybe it’s because he refused to read the bible. Or maybe it was because he fell asleep at mass that one time when he was a child, and his parents never bothered bringing him back that day after. Whatever it was, it certainly did _not_ have to do with Togo Hifumi and shogi nor did it have anything to do with Yusuke’s whereabouts.

But he pushes the door anyway, listens as it creaks open. His eyes dart to the corner, spots the red barette in Togo’s hair...

...”Oh!”

Akira’s gaze flies in the direction of the voice, an apology prepared for take off for nearly smacking the young man in the face.

“Excuse me...” He looks meek, eyes downcast and darting this way and that to avoid locking their gazes. His glasses slant off his nose and he pushes at them before trying to move around Akira... Then he stops. “Do... Have I met you before?”

He scrolls through the many faces of Shujin’s students in his mind’s eye before realizing there is no way this young man can be in high school. He is wearing a business suit, and his hair is smooth and kept. This man did not look familiar…

...but he soon realizes the feeling is not mutual.

“Yeah... I have seen you before,” he continues, more to himself than to Akira. His pupils dilate, mouth agape. “You were in my dream. You were with the bakeneko-!”

Well, that certainly escalated quickly. “We should go somewhere else.” Akira says, turning and hoping that Nakanohara Natsuhiko gets the message.

“R-Right...”

A street down from the block, they find respite beneath the eaves of an older shop. Nakanohara holds himself, one arm dropping before moving back, then to his hair, then back again. His nerves are on fire, Akira realizes, and it’d be wrong start firing questions without regard to how he felt.

Thankfully, he needn’t worry about breaking the ice.

“You appeared in my dream,” Nakanohara says when they’ve ducked into the back of a convenience store a few doors down from the church. “And I spoke to that... to that cat... I know I sound crazy, but it all felt so real, and I remembered everything.” Nakanohara tries to meet his eyes. “The bakeneko, he said I’d find you, and that you needed to know.”

When had he done that? Akira wonders, but he allows Nakanohara to continue. This man was connected to Madarame, and with Yusuke out of commission, he was willing to listen. Whether the weight of Nakanohara’s words would live up to the information he needed, he’d decide later.

“I’m one of Madarame’s former pupils, before I became something unwanted in the art world...,” his gaze darts to the side, as if uttering the name of his former teacher would cause him to sprout from the very tiles themselves. But Akira knew this already; Morgana had said so. “He gave me a home in return for art. For years and years, I thought of nothing but art. But...” his teeth pinch his bottom lip, voice lowering. “Madarame didn’t like it when we weren’t working or when they wanted to do something else. We were more than just students.”

There’s a lull in Nakanohara’s words. The adjacent aisles are unusually empty for such an evening, remaining customers hurrying to the front of the store to check out. Even so, a small amount of people was not nothing, and talk about Madarame would reel in anyone’s attention.

“As payment for the roof above our heads, he wanted our artwork.”

Yusuke’s exhausting search for some unseen ‘inspiration’, the sketches that littered his floor he came to collect... Akira knew it. “He plagiarized.”

Nakanohara’s eyes widen. “Y-Yes... That’s right,” he pauses, eyebrows knitting in confusion. “Did that cat tell you?”

 _‘Well, he meowed at me this morning when I refused to give him Leblanc’s curry._ ’ Akira’s shoulders lift in a shrug.

He waits for Akira to fill in the blanks. When it doesn’t come, he slouches, pushes at his glasses. “I sound like a lunatic... But I had to be honest with you. He told me – ah, your _cat_ , told me the only way to save the remaining student was to trust you.”

“Remaining student?” Akira feigns ignorance.

A nod. “There’s one more student with Madarame. He’s been there long before any of us. You could say he was my senpai, despite me being older,” Nakanohara continues. “He didn’t like to talk about himself, and he was the first to defend Madarame if he overheard us,” air hushes out between his teeth. His anxiousness is almost _tangible_. “You don’t live as long as me and not be able to tell lies. That boy wanted to leave, told me ‘I would if I could’... When I questioned him further, he shut me out again.”

Something chills his spine. After seeing Yusuke’s vehement denial of Madarame’s abuse, Akira’s not sure if he could picture those words ever coming from Yusuke’s mouth...

...But maybe he _could_.

Yusuke’s eyes never held just one emotion. If Akira stared deep enough, he could look into the window to his true feelings, pick out what words were strung with lies and which ones were honest. He curses himself for not paying closer attention, but the topic of Madarame had always been touchy. Yusuke let him into the spirit world, but he had yet to give him access into his life.

He knows Yusuke hated being chained down, even if he wouldn’t admit it to Akira himself.

“Please,” and Nakanohara bows at the waist. “You must help him. I have seen so much talent destroyed by that man’s selfishness. I don’t want anyone to get hurt anymore,” the entire time, Nakanohara speaks as if he’s imparting a deathly secret. In a way, Akira supposes, he is. “Someone _died_ because they couldn’t take seeing his name under their art. I don’t want that to happen to Kitagawa-kun.”

He feels as if the world is dragging him down, a tangle of nerves taking respite at the pit of his abdomen. He didn’t want that to happen to Yusuke either. Hell, _anyone_.

It was stupid to question whether Yusuke would go through on suicide. Strange he may be, confident in both skills and himself as a person, a human was not immune to darker thoughts and ideas no matter how large their ego was. Yusuke was, _is_ a victim, and he’s not immune from death whether it be inflicted by an outside force or by his own hand.

“I don’t know how you can help, but that cat spoke highly of you.” Nakanohara sighs, fatigue stretching his face with twice the amount of intensity. “I’ve told you all I that I know, like he wanted. I hope that it helps you,” and at that, he tugs at his sleeve, glancing at the wrist watch he wore. “I don’t have time anymore. But please, help him.”

Akira nods. “I don’t need to be told twice.”

“Thank you... It is very important,” he breathes in relief. And when a random customer breaches their private bubble to grab something off the shelf, Nakanohara makes way for the door. “Whatever your methods are, I am putting my faith in them and you.”

Once more he bows. The last thing Akira sees are his downtrodden eyes and matching expression, a final, unspoken plea to set things right. As far as Akira knew, he had a means of going back, in the form of a small idol waiting patiently at the bottom of his school bag.

He had no choice.

Akira would be sure that Nakanohara’s blind trust was not misplaced.

"It was here."

Ikiryo Kamoshida rolls his eyes. "Could've been anywhere. I told you, I don't-"

"-remember, I know," Akechi cuts off, uncharacteristically sharp. Ah. He needed to watch himself, didn't he? "I can tell. There's a leftover energy that is not entirely undead."

Sometimes essence came in colors. He feels it rumbling in his chest, stirring in his heart. The mist swirls to life, forming the silhouettes of a creature with Kamoshida's body, a giant beast - a _kitsune_ \- a small bakeneko, and...

Akechi's frowns, blinking once.

...a human...?

The energy left by them is strong, loathe as he is to admit. It clenches his heart, makes the link between him and his spirit shiver at the familiar aura that emanates over the human's own essence. This was a person who could breathe this air for more than five minutes, this was a person who had a connection to a something unnatural not unlike Kamoshida and his demon. This human was a potential threat.

And it was one he was going to put down.

Human, human, _human_.

The weakest creature on the tier list, beings controlled by their disgusting emotions, beings who did stupid things that tore apart their world again and again. They never learned their lesson, and yet they were the ones responsible for steering everyone towards the future.

Human leaders should not exist.

And they did _not_ belong in this world.

"What's got you so worked up?" Kamoshida's voice pierces his thoughts, blind to the mist figures that shiver to dust right as the kitsune drags the monster Kamoshida off the defenseless human.

His fingers are sore from clenching so tightly, and he flexes them, tightens his glove with a sharp pull. This man... was truly obnoxious. "What do you remember?"

"Huh?"

Akechi whips around, sanding down the polite tone of his voice. "Your demon was attacked here," at Kamoshida's silence, he continues, "The line between you two had been cut the instant it took the demon to a shrine. Put simply, the one you are looking to blame is a kitsune."

"A kitsune?" the incredulity is almost tangible. "And where am I supposed to find a giant ghost fox?"

"You'll leave that to me," Akechi brushes aside. "This is no longer about a matter of revenge." For a spirit to bring a live human to their world... it was taboo. "There's one more person I would like you to meet, Kamoshida-san."

He wants to tear the words from his brain, grind them beneath his heel into the mist-chocked ground. ' _This human is a threat_ ,' his mind repeats. ' _They made a contract with something just as powerful as you. They were brought here by a bakeneko and a kitsune. They are strong. They could overthrow you, if they grew strong enough_.'

His mind flashes back to that day in Ueno, the boy from Leblanc, and the boy with the blue hair. At the time, he brushed it aside. It wasn't unusual for kitsune to walk among humans. But the essence, the fox had the same as one Kitagawa Yusuke.

"Who is it?"

Now it was a matter of finding them. Kamoshida had yet to face real justice, and it would not be done by supernatural means from a _messenger_ of a God...

Akechi says smoothly, "Masayoshi Shido."


	12. Chapter 11

Ann messaged him at some point in the dead of night. He's busy typing away his response, letting the warmth of Leblanc's coffee-scented atmosphere wash over him. She had questions, and he owed her those answers. There was no turning back now.

"Damn," Sojiro curses, rubbing the back of his neck as he glares at the interior of the fridge. There's a pause before he turns to Akira. "Hey, could you watch the store until I get back?"

He's curious, but decides its not worth asking why. At his nod, Sojiro utters a thanks with a promise to be back.

 **ANN.** i gotta get back to work.

 **ANN.** i'll see you this afternoon, right?

 **AKIRA.** I'll be there.

The bell rings.

"You're back?" his frown deepens.

Sojiro was not a third year high school student, nor did he have brown hair (Sojiro barely had hair at all. Not that Akira would say this; not enough Guts) or look as polished as Akechi Goro did. He's polite, as always. "Oh, it's you again. It seems I remembered the name," he hesitates. "You... are open, yes?"

A little under half of his breakfast remains on his plate. Somehow, Akechi's presence saps away his appetite. He brings it to the trashcan beneath the sink. "We are. Can I get you something?" he ponders if he should slide on the apron.

"No, but I could use some of your time," Akechi responds, sliding into one of the bar seats. "I won't be long."

To say this was suspicious was an understatement.

And Sojiro would be disappointed if Akira didn't clean the plate. He runs the water low, adjusts it to lukewarm temperature. "I'm listening." Akechi's eyes practically _bore_ into his back.

"Thank you," he says, false pleasantries oozing from his words. "Kurusu-kun, have you noticed anything different lately?"

He scrubs at a stubborn stain on the plate. "You're going to have to be more specific."

Another light laugh. "Right, I suppose I meant to ask if you've seen your friend? The one who was with you at Ueno?"

He applies more soap to the brush. It serves as little distraction from the nervousness that begins to prickle at his mind. And he's half-tempted to leave the damn plate because no matter how many times he dunks in under the spray of water again and again, it refuses to do its damn job. "I haven't," he answers half-truthfully.

"I see..." (Akira stops himself from looking back the instant catches a hint of disappointment in Akechi's voice. Had he imagined that?) "I only ask because there has been a lull in reports. Of course, I can't elaborate on the details, but I started to wonder if this was connected to Kamoshida's case. Your friend was quite adamant about creating change. Have you ever thought there was a connection?"

It's somehow easier to read Akechi when he doesn't look at his face. His words gain an edge, his voice less kind, professional.

"Should I take your silence as an answer?"

"Yusuke's not involved," Akira responds simply.

"You sound sure, but you admit you haven't seen him," Akechi challenges. "Kurusu-kun? You've been washing the same plate for a while now..."

His hands cease their movements, and he flips off the water. Inspecting its now clear surface, he turns, setting it on the counter top. Akechi glances at him, arms folded on the counter. He's half-tempted to check his phone for the time, for _something_ to distract him further - even if he had to read Ann's backlogs.

"Sometimes when we dream, we see things. They could be visits to a past life, to some place we've seen before, or to a place we're convinced is not real," (His heart begins to stutter.) "I struggle to remember my dreams. A shame, given they are far more pleasant than the real world. There's no betrayal or envy, and if there is, all it takes is one transition to erase your emotions."

Akira says nothing.

Akechi sighs, digging into his coat pocket. "It's better if I cut to the chase," the small bag of sticks and leaves are familiar. "Do you recognize these?"

He remembers the _crunch_ they made when he laid down on his bed and Yusuke's reluctance to explain them. To say he recognized them was the truth - and he _did_. But he couldn't tell him their _function_ , and that is exactly what Akechi Goro was looking for. That was an answer he couldn't give him.

Each time Yusuke tapped into his abilities, he shed leaves and twigs... or so Akira thought. It's no surprise that Akechi found a sample, given how poorly Yusuke cleaned up after himself.

"It's best to be honest with me, Kurusu-kun," the unspoken threat is a knife to his throat. "You know more than you're letting on. We can continue to spin in circles, or you could tell me about Kitagawa Yusuke."

"Why does it matter to you?" Akira asks carefully.

Akechi tucks away the bag, irritation seeping into his movements. "If my suspicions are true, he could be in danger," he looks at him then, face oddly blank. "And maybe you as well."

Akira returns the frown. Every nerve inside of him is screaming to kick Akechi out, to tell him to mind his own business, and then praying that Sojiro returns _now_. But he can't do that. His mind whirs to work, scrambling to find the non-rude words that would get Akechi off his tracks. "Thanks for your concern," he starts off slowly. "But we'll be fine on our own. Don't waste your time."

He's not sure what to expect - a glare, maybe for Akechi to bail out of Leblanc right then and there. But he does none of that. His smirk is poisonous as is his voice, "I say this as an acquaintance, Kurusu," he drops the honorific. "You should be careful; it is overconfidence and pride that leads most of us to our end," there's a glint in his eye that catches in the fresh light of Leblanc's overhead lamps. "And it is recklessness and desperation that drive us to make foolish decisions, such as agreeing to something without reading the fine print."

The tension in the atmosphere hardens, and Akira holds Akechi's gaze. ' _He knows..._ ' his mind murmurs. ' _He knows something, or at least knows it exists._ '

For the third time that morning, the bell announcing sings. Sojiro walks in, shopping bag dangling from his fingers. "You didn't get him anything?" he says, dropping his... whatever by the payphone.

"Don't blame him, please," Akechi says with fake politeness. "I didn't ask for anything, and I ought to be leaving soon. I may have overstayed my welcome," and he stands from his seat. Akira doesn't miss the way he pushes the bag further into his pocket. "And I believe Kurusu-kun has somewhere to be as well. I'll have to visit again."

Sojiro hums thoughtfully as Akechi pushes at the door.

"Thank you," he says.

And he takes a portion of the tension with him.

Yusuke would have met Akechi's questions with cold dismissal. Though he spoke little, he feels as if he didn't defend Yusuke _enough_. The suspicion Akechi had branded them with refused to wash away much like that stain on the plate.

"Hey," Sojiro calls, and Akira looks up just in time to catch his apron. "I could use some help before you leave."

He shrugs the straps on, unable to find it in himself to protest. The longer he was going to think of Akechi Goro, the more stressed he was going to be. Earlier he had searched for a distraction, and he finds himself looking for another. May as well take Sojiro's offer and clear his thoughts before he went to meet Ann. "Got it."

No amount of coffee making could pry Akechi's stubborn words from his mind.

“So how do you do it?”

Akira keeps his eyes on the clutch of tiger lilies. “Do what?”

“The whole disappearing thing.”

Amid the bustle of the Shibuya Underground Mall is not the place to be discussing interdimensional travel, but he did promise to meet Ann after her shift. Her text earlier that morning had been vague, leaving little room for him to decline. Likewise, he had much to tell her as well.

Somewhere by his feet, his bag moves.

He regards her with a raised eyebrow. “Really?”

“So you want me to pretend I didn’t see anything? Yeah, sorry, doesn’t work like that,” and the mock cheer in her voice is so plastic he almost hears it crinkle. She unties the straps of her apron, hanging it on the hook by the sink. “I know you can’t tell me everything, but something’s been bothering you, and I think a lot of it has to do with that world.”

Meanwhile, Ann’s boss, Hanasaki-san, gives them an odd look before turning back to the customer. Could Ann _be_ any louder...?

“Can you wait until you’re done working?”

“I am,” Ann says simply, hoisting her purse over her shoulder. “Let’s get going!”

They bid farewell to Hanasaki-san, navigate through Shibuya’s underground walkway before emerging in station square. There are, unsurprisingly, more people, meaning he has even less room to tell Ann the details she so craved. And maybe Ann notices this too, exhaling a heavy huff.

He should be searching for a way back to the spirit world or meeting Ryuji at the hospital before his release. He’s still unfamiliar with Shibuya hangout spots that didn’t draw an excessive amount of chatter and noise. “Do you know some place quiet?”

“Hmm...” Ann hums thoughtfully to herself, digging for her phone.

Akira blinks. “Got enough decorations?”

The charms that dangle from the phone are very chibi and anime-esque, ranging from a small cat with a dusty coat of fur to a little trinket in the shape of a dessert. There’s also one of that Loveline character from that kid’s show. Huh. Should he be surprised Ann watched that? But it’s the one that sways to and fro from the momentum that catches his attention—

“Oh, yeah,” Ann says, cupping them in her palm. “I saw a pack of these at the store across from Rafflesia. Aren’t they cute?”

“—Is that a fox?”

Compared to the, quote-on-quote, ‘cute’ ones, this one is detailed from its calm face to the details of the red markings on its face. Its eyes are arched black lines, to give the impression it was happy, he thinks. Clamped in its muzzle is a small sphere. If he looked closely, he could see how time had begun to tear at its rubbery, white pelt.

Ann nods, unclipping the fox with little difficulty. She pinches it between her thumb and forefinger, holding it up before her face. “Back in middle school, I traveled a lot with my parents, and we visited Fushimi Inari Taisha in Kyoto. It was an early birthday gift. The charm, I mean, not the trip.”

“You travel often?”

She averts her gaze from Akira to the tiny fox. “Well, I used to. Their jobs keep them busy,” something falls in Ann’s demeanor, as if she is remembering a time that is long past gone. “They didn’t seem to remember buying it for me though. Actually, I don’t think they remember _anything_ from Kyoto...”

There’s a break in her words, and by the time Akira tries to reach out, she’s speaking again.

“But it’s not a regular fox; I shouldn’t be calling it that,” Ann laughs lightly. “It’s actually a kitsune. They had statues of them _everywhere_ in Fushimi Inari. It kinda felt like they were watching people climbing up the stairs and walking under all the tori.”

 _‘Well... they probably were._ ’ he thinks.

“I don’t know much about Japanese folklore,” she admits. “But you see that ball in its mouth? It’s supposed to be a special item that kitsunes have. Kinda like their own good luck charm.”

His eyebrows knit together. A good luck charm... for a kitsune? Did they have a need for one?

“Excuse me!”

Their heads snap in the direction of the voice.

It’s a woman with dark, short hair, one of those expensive Nikon cameras hanging around her neck. Resting on top of her head are a pair of orange shades. Akira has never seen this person before in his life.

“Ohya-san?”

...Apparently Ann has.

“Ann-chan, hello~” Ohya says, and he catches a flash of her white teeth as her red lips pull back in a smile. “I should’ve known it was you.” and she turns to Akira with a curious look. “Who’s this? He your boyfriend?”

“What...?” they share a glance. “No, he’s just a friend of mine.”

“Mmm-hmm...” Ohya doesn’t sound convinced... “That’s how they all start out, don’t they?”

And as she nears, he picks up the stale smell of booze clinging to her. He inwardly cringes, and maybe Morgana picks up on it too because he feels the bag jerk against his side.

“Anyway, you both seem sophisticated enough. I was wondering if you were planning to see Madarame Ichiryusai’s art exhibit.”

His heart jumps.

Ann tilts her head in confusion. “We don’t have any tickets. I mean, it sounds mature and all, visiting an art exhibit, but...” her eyes widen just slightly as a realization seems to hit her. “Wait, did you say Madarame?”

“So you _do_ know him,” Ohya observes.

She nods, slowly. “He’s kinda well-known, isn’t he? His art style is so diverse. It’s as if each one is painted by someone else.”

Morgana meows sharply, and Akira coughs out a one note laugh, patting the side of the bag with more force than probably necessary. Ohya and Ann fix him with a look, gaze darting from him, to the bag, to back. “Text message,” he supplies.

A beat of silence.

They’re all holding up very well in this sudden staring contest.

“You gonna answer it?” Ohya finally says.

Akira shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“Anyway,” Ann says, and he mentally thanks her for pulling back Ohya’s attention. “What does a famous artist have to do with us?”

“Well, you’re both kids, yeah? Surely you’ve had an interest in the fine arts at some point,” at their reluctance, Ohya blinks. “Seriously?”

Ann shrugs. “It’s nice and all, but I don’t know anything about it.”

“Okay...” Ohya stretches out the word, running a hand through her hair. “But you must have at least heard the rumors from someone.”

He zeroes in on the word, attention snagged. “Rumors?” he echoes.

“About his artwork. You seem to be more informed than Ann-chan about this,” (“Hey...”) “But I don’t have enough evidence to write a full report. So that’s why I was hoping students would at least be interested. Of course, this’d all be easier if I could speak with Madarame, but he never seems to be at home when I come by... Probably gets hounded by the press as it is.”

A home.

It’s the closest he’s got to Madarame’s (to Yusuke’s) personal life. “You have his address?”

Ohya frowns. “Yeah. Why, you want it?”

“Wait, is that what we’re doing?” Ann chips in.

“Why’re you suddenly so interested?” Ohya challenges. “You’re not gonna do something stupid like vandalize his house or anything, are you?”

“Tempting, but no,” Akira says.

Ohya blinks in surprise. “Oh.”

“I’ll tell you what you need to know in exchange,” he offers. Or... at least an abridged version. “But I need the address.”

“Akira...!” Ann hisses.

She thinks, pausing as if rolling the offer around in her head. Her sigh is heavy, weight shifted to one leg before she pulls out a notepad from her back pocket. Ohya scribbles something down, reaches in another pocket, and hands him both slip of paper and a business card.

Street number, street name, area code...

It would be a train ride over, a transfer from the JR line...

“Better keep up your end of the deal, alright?” Ohya warns. “And don’t do anything reckless that’ll get both of us screwed over.”

“Of course,” Akira says. “Thank you.”

“Sure, sure...”

And he’s already plugging in the information to his phone before they’ve fully walked away. Ann stops him with a hand on his forearm when they’re out of ear shot and well into the belly of the station. Given how out of breath she looks, she must have been trying to get his attention _much_ earlier.

Oops.

“Earth to Kurusu!” she nearly exclaims when they’re lined up on the platform. “Would you mind telling me what that was all about? Why do you suddenly care for the rumors about Madarame?”

He looks up from his phone, finger adjusting the volume. “You don’t have to come along.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Ann rolls her eyes, tension dropping from her shoulders. “Back there? That was Ohya Ichiko. She hasn’t had the best of luck with her ‘investigations’ lately, so what makes you think you’ll do any better?”

Information. They needed information if they wanted to track down the spirit in the other world. Nakanohara helped him tremendously, but it was easier if it came straight from the target’s mouth... right?

How did Yusuke do it? And did they just magically spawn like enemies in a video game? Or would he have to dive into the woods and search for him?

If only he could ask Morgana.

“It’s personal,” he finds himself saying. “I know Madarame through a friend.”

“So you think they’ll know something?” Ann has calmed down, but the incredulity is still evident. And then she gasps, inhaling sharply. “Wait- Madarame’s an artist, right? Wasn’t Yusuke looking for something to paint when he last visited Shiho?”

He nods.

“And your friend...” a frown etches itself onto her face, and she folds her arms across her chest. “Are you saying there’s a connection? Is Yusuke one of those people involved with the rumors?”

“I doubt it,” Akira denies with a brief shake of his head. He _knew_ it. “Yusuke’s not one for idle gossip.”

“...Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

They sit in a comfortable silence, feeling the vibrations of the train tracks beneath their feet. Ann leans against the wall of the cart, Akira pockets away his phone. “You don’t have to come along if you don’t want to.”

She gives him a look that is so unamused it’d have Sojiro jealous. “Gee, you could’ve told me that before I paid the fee.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she says. “I probably would’ve gone anyway. Too curious, remember?” and they share a quiet laugh, ignoring the glances they receive from the surrounding passengers. “But could you tell me about Yusuke? I told you before: I know you guys have your secrets, but if there’s a chance he’s in trouble, then I want to be there for him.”

“I’m sure he would appreciate that.” (‘ _Not really,’_ his mind quips.)

“Which means you need to tell me what you can. I’m sure Shiho and Ryuji would want to help too, but we can keep this between us for now. Until you and Yusuke are ready, that is.”

Absentmindedly, he wonders if Morgana is suffocating in the cramped space of his bag. His finger fiddles with the zipper, pulls it open just so. Morgana would want to hear this too. “It’s a long story.”

“I don’t mind. I mean it: I want to help him, and you too.”

Akira thinks back to their first meeting, goes over the events the past month and a half (or had it been more...?), irons out the whole Yusuke being a kitsune thing, and leaves out the supernatural details that would surely turn a few heads.

The area surrounding the station is unlike the mechanical heartbeat of Shibuya. There’s a quiet murmur that sweeps from house to house, permeates the air like a miasma. Akira’s not sure if its’ comfortable or suffocating.

As they walk, he tells Ann about the spirit world, about the demon Kamoshida, leaving out Morgana and Yusuke’s role. He bends the story, says Kamoshida was taken away by vengeful spirits rather than dragged into the woods by Yusuke.

And of course, there was the matter of the voice, of which he imparted to no one.

One day, he would have to tell them. At _least_ Morgana.

“So, you don’t know what triggers it?” Ann wonders aloud as they walk down the sidewalk, scanning the house numbers as they pass by. “And you want to find Madarame because you think he’s abusing Yusuke...?”

He nods. “I questioned Yusuke about it, as you know.”

“Still avoiding you, huh?”

His shoulders lift in a half-hearted shrug.

“If what you’re saying is true, he could be in denial. When Kamoshida kept harassing me, I tried to look away. I thought if I pretended it didn’t’ exist, there wouldn’t be an issue, that it’d go away on its own,” Ann says. “Yusuke’s in denial – that’s gotta be it. He probably feels as if he has nowhere to go.”

Truly, Ann had a point. But something didn’t fit. It was as if they were missing a tiny piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

“Is this it...?”

He does a double take at Ohya’s note before he sees the nameplate on the wall. Akira can’t fight the frown that presses itself into his face. An esteemed artist lived in a _shack_ like this? They step closer to the wooden door. Much like the house, it shows its age through the peeling and chipped wood. It’s a sliding door, he realizes, but there is an intercom that sticks out awkwardly against a backdrop of traditional Japanese architecture... if one could _call_ it that given how run down it appeared.

“So... What do we say?” Ann asks.

And then Morgana is squeezing his head out from the small opening in the bag, meowing.

“Y-You brought your _cat_?!”

“You’re just noticing?” Akira says, finger hovering over the button on the panel. With his other hand, he gently pushes Morgana back in. “Not now; you’re going to get caught.”

Alright. What to say, what to say...? ‘ _Hello, Madarame-san. You remember me? We ran into each other when you were harassing Yusuke at the park, then you came into my— Sojiro’s café and then we took a walk together. Let’s not forget the part where you looked ready to punch out my lights when I went to pick up the thing you dropped. By the way, did you hit Yusuke? Oh, and I heard you were stealing his artwork too. Can we come in now?_ ’

Perfect.

There’s a loud buzzing noise that hums sharply on the other side of the door as he presses the button.

And...

Nothing.

He tries again.

Morgan says something, but it doesn’t matter; he doesn’t understand him anyway.

Was nobody home?

One more.

“ _I’m sorry for the wait,”_ a voice emits from the speakers. “ _Sensei is not here at the_ — _”_

 _“_ Yusuke?” Akira cuts him off.

More silence.

There’s the sound of footsteps on the other end before the door swings open. Yusuke is not smiling at either of them. His eyebrows are furrowed in a frown, lips in a tight line. Akira can see Yusuke’s hand clench the doorframe. And Yusuke himself looks... tired, dark circles stained beneath his eyes.

“How did you get here?” Yusuke asks vapidly.

Akira avoids his question. “We need to talk.”

“I’m busy,” he closes the door—

—and Akira jams his foot in the entranceway. He keeps his expression plain in the face of Yusuke’s glare. “Now.”

“Your timing is horrendous,” Yusuke snaps. “Sensei will be back any minute. If he finds out you and Ann are here, he’ll be very displeased.”

Ann steps forward, cautious. “Yusuke? You don’t look too good... Are you sick?”

“That doesn’t concern you.” he responds.

“Urgh, stop being so stubborn! We just want to talk for a little,” her face softens, pushing aside her frown. “If it’ll make you feel, we’ll leave right after and tear up the address. But this is important, so could you please hear us out?”

They await Yusuke’s answer, standing where tension presses down on their bodies. Yusuke looks at them the way a pretentious jewelry store owner may look at a customer with poor clothing. His trust in Ann was nonexistent, while his trust in Akira was questionable, constantly teetering from friend to acquaintance.

...Or so Akira thinks.

Now, he wants nothing more than to force the wedge out from between them.

Yusuke slides the door open. Akira can see a long hallway behind him, the walls oddly empty for belonging to a famous artist. Then again, it’s not as if Madarame spent any of his time painting. He waits for them to remove their shoes before guiding them to the first room on the left.

It’s an average sized room, larger than what he had been expecting. To the far left corner is a bookshelf while bureaus with many drawers stocked with paints and brushes sit below the window sill. In the center of the room is a canvas on an easel covered by a purple tarp. The floor was littered with paint splatters, rolled up pieces of tissue stained with different blotches of color.

Yusuke gestures for them to sit on the bench by the door, taking a seat on the stool by the easel. “What is it?” he says.

“I wanted to talk to you about Madarame.”

He frowns, jaw tightening. “This again?” at the lack of response, Yusuke continues, “What is your purpose? Why are you so determined to meddle in his affairs?”

“We want to help,” Ann counters. “I know you won’t tell me, but you did something. Whatever it was, it worked because now he’s behind bars, and the students aren’t getting tormented anymore.” Yusuke scoffs, brushes aside a lock of hair that falls into his eye. “There’s nothing you can do. Surely Akira told you this.”

“I did,” Akira confirms. “But the difference here is you tried to stop Kamoshida and it worked. You’ve done nothing to stop Madarame.”

“Because there is nothing to stop,” Yusuke protests. “Unlike you, I don’t have the option of a free will. I am tied here until the day I die.”

“Die?” Ann echoes, shock lighting her face. “I-Isn’t that more than enough of a reason to stand up to him?”

Yusuke shakes his head, eyes closing. Something was definitely there, something that could easily solve this back and forth tennis match if Yusuke would only open his heart to them. “As I said: It’s not that simple. My circumstances compared to the previous students are not the same.”

“Circumstances?”

Akira stares at Yusuke, who’s attention zeroes in on something on the floor only he can see. If Ann weren’t here, he could ask more about the kitsunes, ask why Yusuke refused to morph into Madarame and confess to plagiarizing and abuse.

Something is being held out of reach, something important that can be used to crack the very mystery of Yusuke’s predicament. He can’t place his finger on it with the little information he had. One art student’s testament was not enough. If Akira was understanding things correctly, then Madarame would not appear in the spirit world until all the pieces fell into place.

“What were you working on?” Ann asks, gesturing to the covered painting.

Yusuke follows her gaze. Carefully, he rises from his seat to peel the tarp away from the painting.

A mosaic of dark colors and yellow highlights spread across the canvas. Akira can make out the reflection of tree branches on the shaky surface of the water, the bright moon that shines like a star in the black and blue backdrop.

“It was for the June art exhibit, but I don’t think sensei is satisfied with it.”

“For real?” Ann exclaims. “But it looks great!”

Akira agrees. There’s a solemnness to the painting, a mirror to the conflict Yusuke fought within himself, with Madarame, maybe even with Akira himself. For as breathtaking as it is, there is a deeper meaning hiding in the imagery.

“There are elements in art that create unity,” Yusuke says, thumb brushing against the corner of the canvas. “While the color is balanced, it does not exhibit reflection as well as it should. I fear in my haste to make the deadline, I neglected the theme as well, meaning I will have to work on another.”

“Hmm...” Ann hums thoughfully, frowning. “I don’t know much about art, but I can sense a lot of emotion from this. Loneliness, isolation... Maybe a ‘lost in thoughts’ sort of vibe to it. That could be why your teacher doesn’t like it, or maybe he’s jealous. Artists are supposed to channel their emotions, right? Well, what were you thinking of while painting?”

Yusuke had been looking at her the entire time she spoke, but now, his gaze returns to the canvas. There are lines of concentration tugging at his face, as if he were digging into his mind for an answer that had been long forgotten. “I suppose I was trying to emulate the feelings that spurred within me the day I saw one of...” he hesitates. “...sensei’s paintings. In fact, that very piece was what helped push me to become an artist.”

Akira would be lying if he said his curiosity wasn’t pricked. Not for Madarame’s ‘work’ but the break in Yusuke’s recited words.

Ann notices it too, “It must be some painting...” she muses aloud. “Still, if he knew how much it meant to you, why is he still putting so much pressure on a student? I get if he wants you to emulate those feelings, but he’s an artist too, right? Shouldn’t he be more empathetic?”

“It’s not that simple,” Yusuke dismisses again.

“But... it could be,” Ann argues.

Yusuke’s hand tightens. “Do not get the wrong idea. I’m doing this as payment. It is my way of—” and Yusuke inhales sharply, head snapping in the direction of the door.

Akira stills, confusion quickly spreading through his veins. Ann senses it as well. “Yusuke?” she prods. “What is it? What’s—”

“You need to leave,” Yusuke cuts her off.

“Huh? Wait, why—?”

He reaches for his bag on the ground and his heart crams itself into his throat. Akira pulls back the zipper only to be met with the small kitsune idol. There are tiny filaments of Morgana’s fur, but no Morgana.

“Where’s the cat?”

Akira looks up. He knew? “I don’t know. He must’ve snuck out while we were talking.”

“Of all the...” Yusuke grits his teeth, turning to yank the door back with a little more force than necessary. “I’ll find him. There are very few places he can hide; this is a small house. For now, you can leave out the window in my room. I will send Morgana on his way when I find him.”

Ann looks to Akira, worried, and it registers that there are footsteps slowly approaching the house. He had not heard them earlier when they were stuffed in the studio. But now, they are sounding too close to comfort.

They follow Yusuke to his room, who then propels himself to the front door the instant the buzz hums throughout the building.

Yusuke’s room is bland, for a lack of better word. He can make out a futon, a small table, art supplies and scattered pages of another massacred sketchbook. Sitting on the windowsill is a kokeshi.

Huh... Odd place to put it.

Ann unlatches the window, and Akira listens closely to the voices that bounce down the hallway.

“You took your time.”

“I’m sorry, sensei. I was working.”

“Working, you say? Then I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about this, would you?”

The meow practically stings Akira’s ears. His hand reaches for the door, but Ann is faster, gripping his wrist and shaking her head quickly.

“Well, Yusuke?”

There’s reluctance before Yusuke’s words. “He belongs to... someone from Kosei. If you would allow me, I can return him.”

“I know you can,” Madarame says, and Akira hears Morgana hiss. “Your classmates are lucky to have someone as caring as you. It’s a shame you never seem to return this generosity to me.”

“Sensei,” and there’s a near-desperate lilt to Yusuke’s voice. “punish me as you see fit, but please leave him out of this.”

And Madarame laughs. It’s a twisted, disgusting noise that is nothing short of malicious and taunting. “Of course, of course,” he chuckles, and then the footsteps sound closer as they walk down the hall. Amid the calm steps of Madarame, Akira picks up on Yusuke’s hurried ones. “But maybe you’d like to introduce me to your friends first.”

The door crashes open, and Akira pushes Ann behind him when Madarame stands in the entranceway, Morgana dangling by the scruff of his neck, Yusuke’s pupils dilated from panic.

“Well, this is quite a surprise,” Madarame muses, words dipped in mock politeness, the same tone of voice he’d use in front of news reporters and fans alike. “To think one of them was that boy from the café,” he holds Morgana out. “Take him.”

Morgana meows.

Akira stays still.

“If you won’t, then would you care to tell me why you’re in my house? Or did my foolish student invite you over so he could further procrastinate his work?”

“We didn’t mean to cause him distraction,” Ann speaks up. “It was our fault. We needed his help with something, and he was the closest person. So, that’s why we’re here!”

Her improvising sucks.

Morgana looks unamused, Yusuke... well, he could never tell with Yusuke.

Madarame lowers his arm, unclenches the scruff of Morgana’s neck, who drops to the floor like a sack of bricks. He hustles over to Akira, weaving between his legs to watch Madarame carefully, who looks them directly in the eyes. “There should be consequences for children like you,” he says darkly. “But I could hear you discussing some... interesting things earlier. What was this about another world?”

The blood in Akira’s veins freeze over. “How did you...?”

“...Meaning you already know too much. But I must thank you, Kurusu. You see, had it not been for you, I wouldn’t have found out Yusuke created that video. I don’t think the police would be willing to overlook this,” and Madarame turns to Yusuke, whose foot slides back to create more distance. “And by trusting a _human_ , he has endangered us as well.”

Madarame’s nails grow, extending and curving into sharpened claws that could hook and tear. Akira sees him raise his clawed hand, catches the way Yusuke responds by flinching to the side in a futile way to weaken the blow, and he’s in motion.

Ann gasps, Yusuke’s eyes are wide, and Madarame is equally as shocked.

Beneath Madarame’s sleeve, Akira’s fingers girp something _metal_ , and if he wanted, he could tug it free if he were quick enough. But as it is, he’s cornered himself by stopping Madarame from striking Yusuke. Whatever it was clamped around his wrist, it was something important.

A gift from a student, huh...?

He didn’t deserve to wear this.

“You dare lay a finger on me...!”

“And you would hit your student,” Akira retorts, words cutting as he looks Madarame in the eyes. He catches the glint of yellow in his iris, but he already had enough proof that Madarame wasn’t what he seemed.

He’s taken a brutal beatdown from the demon Kamoshida, bathed in a fire that nearly chased him into insanity when the pain had run freely up and down his limbs. Madarame’s ‘claws’ were nothing.

“Perhaps I will have to teach you discipline myself!” Madarame opens his mouth around a vicious growl, dark eyes regaining their goldish tint, and he twists his body towards Akira, ramming his bony fist into his stomach. It flings Akira’s grip from his wrist instantly.

The screen frame of Yusuke’s door breaks like glass beneath the weight of his body, wood biting into his back. Astonishment and pain steal his voice, and he slams against the tatami mat, room spinning, Ann and Yusuke’s cry of his name, Ann looming over him with Morgana.

If the eyes and claws hadn’t been proof enough, Madarame’s supernatural strength was the final nail in the coffin.

“Akira!” Ann cries, pulling his upper body into her lap. “A-Are you okay?!”

Stars continue to dance in and out of his vision. “You really wanna know...” he coughs, a jolt of pain lancing up his back when he tries to scoot himself upright.

“You’ve meddled in something that should’ve stayed unknown...” Madarame continues, his shadow swallowing them both as he approaches. “Humans do not belong in that world,” his expression morphs into something much darker. “And now that you know my secret, how am I to believe you won’t reveal it to the public?”

“Sensei, please stop—!” Yusuke’s exclaim is cut short when Madarame whips around. A small whip of blood cracks from Yusuke’s cheek, splattering onto the green of the tatami mat. Yusuke stumbles, reaching out to grip the frame to steady himself, placing his hand over the scratch.

Akira feels his stomach drop. He’s never seen such _fright_ lining Yusuke’s face before, and it disturbs him in a way that he can’t explain. Yusuke, proud and unflappable, a little odd, but never intimidated or scared by some old man... But Madarame wasn’t an ordinary elder, and he was able to back Yusuke into a corner with such ease.

Morgana yowls, drawing everyone’s attention. Akira squints at him, spotting the idol clenched between his teeth.

Madarame’s eyes widen. “Where did you get that?” he lunges for Morgana, who leaps out of the way gracefully, racing towards Yusuke with a meow, voice muffled.

A spark of realization flickers to life in Yusuke’s eyes, and he scoops up Morgana, barreling into Madarame so he falls clumsily to the floor with a grunt. He takes the idol, grasps Akira and Ann’s wrists roughly. “Hold on!”

“Yusuke...!” Madarame rolls onto his side, hand clenching the bracelet, thumb pressed against the jewel. “Give that to me!”

And Yusuke crumbles to the floor with a cry, nails scrabbling against the mat, idol clenched tightly in a fist. Morgana crawls to the idol, pries at Yusuke’s hand before he is shoved aside. One eye clenched shut, Yusuke peers at Akira and Ann. “Take it!” he shouts.

“Akira!” Ann exclaims.

He doesn’t think – he acts.

Akira pries at Yusuke’s fingers, knuckles cutting against the idol’s carved edges. The eyes blink to life, and the room begins to waver. Yusuke, Ann, Morgana... It’s as if he’s dropped a stone in water, ripples stretching their fingers until Madarame quivers as well. Disbelief plasters to his face before morphing into undiluted rage.

And they fall.

His back screams in protest as the ground rushes to meet him. An exclaim of surprise sounds from behind him before Ann too lands. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Yusuke and Morgana land just as harshly.

“Is everyone alright?” he grunts out.

“Ow...” Ann groans in discomfort, rubbing at her lower back. She blinks, eyes widening at her new surroundings. “W-Where are we...?”

This is different. He doesn’t feel the coarse texture of grass but the grit of dirt and tiny stones biting into him. The forest he has come to recognize upon arriving is nowhere in sight, substituted for a decaying tori and an equally rotting shrine. At the center of the altar stands a kitsune statue, growing brown with age. It is the first time he sees one with the head cleaved off.

He nearly echoes Ann’s question. This is the spirit world, but it is a side he’s never seen before.

“I’m fine,” Morgana sighs with a shake of his head. “What about you two?”

Ann scrambles to her feet, backpedaling hastily. “W-What is that? It’s _talking_!”

“That’s Morgana,” Akira responds as he sits up.

“You mean your _cat_? What’s going on?!”

Yusuke has a hand to his head, fingers grasping at his skull. His brow is still contorted by pain when Akira crouches down to help him stand. “I’m fine...” he mutters.

Akira doesn’t believe it. “That bracelet. What’s your connection to it?”

Morgana has gotten Ann to calm down, or at least enough for her to not spew questions each time she opened her mouth. He looks from Akira to Yusuke. “Might wanna start explaining to Lady Ann.”

“...Lady Ann?” Akira and Yusuke echo in unison.

Red flares to his cheeks, and Morgana sputters, “I-I mean, uh, Ann...” he frowns. “That’s beside the point! It’s not very gentlemanly of you to leave a lady in the dark!”

Ann’s gaze flits to Akira. “This is the... spirit world, right? Is that where we are?” at his nod, she looks back to Morgana. “Then why did he change forms? Do all animals do that when they come here, or just cats?”

“I’m not a simple cat!” Morgana protests. “I’m a bakeneko!”

“A bakeneko... Like in those stories...?”

Yusuke moves away from Akira so he can see all of them. His cheek is no longer bleeding, dried sanguine streaks barely visible trailing behind the scratch marks. “They’re not stories,” he says. “What you’re seeing is another world that neighbors your own. It is where yokai can roam freely. However, as you saw, there are other malicious spirits that exist as well.” Yusuke grips his chest, glaring at the ground. “I’m sorry to bring you here.”

“It’s not like you had much of a choice,” Ann sighs.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat before dropping his hand, leveling Akira with a cold stare. “Didn’t I tell you to stay out of this?”

“Yusuke,” Morgana pipes up. “It’s not his fault. I pushed him to learn more about your teacher...”

“You made a promise,” Yusuke continues. “that you wouldn’t pursue Madarame, that you would let things be. I will not ask how you obtained the address, but it will be the last time you use it.”

...Was he _kidding_? “Not unless you tell me about that bracelet.”

“It doesn’t concern you—”

“So, falling to your knees whenever someone fiddles with their wristwatch is normal for you?” Akira quips. “Good to know.”

Yusuke scowls, the glint of sharpened fangs poking against his lower lip. “I trusted you to keep this place a secret, and you did not. By telling Ann, you’ve endangered her as well,” he counters, taking a step forward. “The air here is different; it can _kill_ humans if they stay here too long.”

He sees Ann flinch. “I... I wanted him to tell me,” she says, voice firm. “Yusuke, you did something to Kamoshida here. I had my suspicions, but this makes it real. I asked Akira to tell me because I want to help too.”

“You’re a fool,” Yusuke snaps. “Both of you.”

Ann’s face scrunches into a frown. “Hey—”

“Call us what you want. That’s not going to stop me from finding a way to get rid of Madarame,” the visions of claws and narrowed yellow eyes snap to life in his head.

“You are not to come here again—”

“—I’ll find a way—”

“—And if you do, I will stop you.” Yusuke says quietly. “If I must, I will drag you back to the real world in the same manner I brought Kamoshida to Inari’s shrine.”

Yusuke’s kitsune body pulling a screaming Kamoshida deep into the belly of the forest, teeth hooked in his neck and shoulder, his cape, black blood splattered to his face like war paint... The idea of being in his jaws is terrifying. But Akira was never one to back down.

“Then do it,” he challenges with a glower of his own. “One of us has to stand up for Madarame’s other students.”

Those words were meant to sting, and sting they do because Yusuke’s expression falters, a twinge of hurt before molding into anger. “If you continue to push yourself on me, you will rue this day!” Yusuke snarls. “You’ll wish you never stepped into my life!”

And it’s supposed to intimidate him. It’s Yusuke’s final resort to cut him out of his life, accept his fate as a servant to Madarame, that he can make change when it came to Kamoshida, but not his own teacher. It is beyond frustrating, and Akira feels himself losing grip on his last thread of patience. Anger at Madarame, sympathy for his students, frustration at Yusuke’s stubbornness... they gurgle loudly in his stomach, tell him to stop caring about Yusuke’s feelings and just go into the spirit world and change Madarame himself.

“Hey!” Ann snaps, stepping forward to jab an accusatory finger. “Instead of threating him, _youu_ should be grateful for what he’s trying to do! He got thrown through a freaking _wall_ for your sake, and you’re gonna treat him like dirt? It doesn’t work like—”

“ _Stay out of this_!” Yusuke rounds on her, voice exploding out of him like gunshot. Ann looks as if she’s been slapped, glare scraping off her face immediately. “I did not ask for either of you to intervene. In fact, I warned you to not meddle in my affairs, but here you are,” his teeth are grit, fists clenched at his sides. Akira doesn’t think he’s seen Yusuke this frustrated before. “I told you I would handle this, that Madarame was—”

“—and that’s why he’s been on the news recently,” Akira retorts. “What the hell are you waiting for? Again: What is your connection to his bracelet?”

“It’s none of your...” Yusuke says lowly, and Akira catches a flash of warning in his eyes. “It is not some cheap piece of jewelry he pawned off a student. He flaunts it around to fellow artists, spins a fabricated story of a nameless student that gave it to him out of the goodness of their heart. But I know the truth behind it even if no one else does.”

Madarame. A monster wearing the skin of a human. Teeth, claws, foxlike features... The charm hanging from Ann’s phone had a ball in its mouth, but they couldn’t put a name to it. “He’s a kitsune, isn’t he?”

“A nogitsune,” Yusuke corrects. “One who strayed from Inari to prey on the pain of others. He is, however, still a kitsune, meaning he possesses the same qualities as a regular one.”

A bracelet, a jewel fogged by old age... “That was the source of his power.”

Yusuke doesn’t respond.

Ann speaks up, “So he can control people with that stone? Can a kitsune do that?”

“If we can destroy it...” Akira continues slowly. “...that would kill him, wouldn’t it?”

“Unlikely,” Yusuke says with a grim smirk. “It is impossible to take it from him. I have tried many times and failed with each punishment worse than the last. Eventually, I accepted my fate as his artwork, providing for him in exchange for the roof over my head.”

Akira’s expression softens, and he catches Ann glancing up with an equally sympathetic look on her face. “But you’re not alone this time, or you wouldn’t be if you’d let me help. What is Madarame against four of us?”

His lips part to speak, but no sound comes out.

“Let’s stop this wild goose change and put an end to it.”

Yusuke’s eyes shut, as if lost in deep thought. With the reluctance, Akira ponders if he’s going to reject the offer, throw them back to square one out of pride. Not that it would stop him. He had ways of returning to this world.

“It’s not right for me to drag in humans,” he starts, eyes half-lidded as he fixates on the ground. “That alone is committing a great sin.”

“Even if you have a human’s consent?”

“There is a reason why the world of the living and the dead are separated,” Yusuke’s lips tug into a wry smile. “You do not belong here, and we do not belong there.”

“But don’t you?” they turn at Ann’s voice. “I don’t know what you are, but you seem human. You live among humans, you do the same things people do, and you have feelings. This whole thing about belonging just because someone is ‘alive’ doesn’t make you unwelcome in our world.”

Akira nods in agreement, his lips tugging into a small smile, a gentle nudge to assure Yusuke it was alright.

To let them in.

To trust.

“You ask me to trust you. Aren’t I allowed to do the same?”

Yusuke smirks. “Throwing my words back at me?”

“We’ll make him confess for the plagiarism and the abuse. If it doesn’t work, this place will serve as our plan B. You and Morgana know the spirit world better than I do.” The mist shifts at their feet as it rolls through the grass, as if stalling to listen in on their conversation.

“Humans can’t stay in this world for long... At least, they cannot waste time in the forest.”

Morgana snickers. “He’s a special case,” he says, grinning at Akira. “I’ve never seen a human breathe in the air for as long as him. Maybe he’s onto something, Yusuke. I’m willing to take this risk.”

“But I’m not sure _I_ am,” Yusuke counters with a brief shake of the head. “We’re supposed to protect humans, not lead them to their demise. There are great consequences awaiting us if we fail.”

“After seeing what happened, I don’t think they’re going to want to stay away. Am I right?”

Ann nods her agreement and Akira finds himself doing the same. Madarame would surely close his doors to Yusuke, hunt them down until he killed them himself, or found a way to turn them in for trespassing or some other fantastic tale his limited originality could weave. His eyes slide to the scratch on Yusuke’s cheek, remembers the bruise that once blossomed there, and decides he wouldn’t turn his back on this. He promised Nakanohara, but above it all, Yusuke is his friend. Yusuke remedied his – _their_ – problem; it was only fair of him to do the same if nothing else.

Besides, if he had to witness Madarame striking Yusuke a third time, Akira’s not sure _what_ he’d do.

Morgana jumps in place, raising the idol in the air. “Let’s get back to Tokyo. I don’t know how much longer Lady Ann will last.” (“Huh? But I feel fine.”)

“Do we have a specific location?” Yusuke clenches it in his hand.

“Why not Leblanc?” Ann pipes up. “We can discuss things after hours, can’t we?”

“Hmm...” Morgana hums, folding his tiny arms before staring at Akira. “It _is_ pretty quiet there... What do you think?”

Sojiro had asked about Yusuke, and he welcomed Ann with open arms. To him, they were just friends from school, not friends that would reserve the attic to construct a plan to bring down a fake, world-renowned artist. Nothing suspicious in the least.

Yusuke’s looking at him for confirmation too.

He nods. “Let’s do it.”

And Yusuke falls to all fours as he changes, ears sprouting, tails growing until Akira is met with a familiar and foreign creature. It’s still strange to see a human’s features stretched, limbs stretching to mold into a completely different species. But it is still Yusuke that looks at him. It is still Yusuke with the idol clasped in his muzzle.

He hears Ann inhale sharply in surprise right as Yusuke’s teeth crush the stone clean in half.

There are colors that blur and run by him faster than the smudge of trees and buildings outside a shinkansen’s window. They’re dizzying, brand themselves into his mind, and he clenches his eyes shut against the neon blues and reds and pinks that drag him further into the belly of the vortex.

Returning this time is unlike anything he experienced before.

He thinks he preferred it when the sky trembled. Less dizzy, less chance of the bile rising in his throat from spinning and falling through a fantastical tunnel only visible through the eyes of stoners.

And Akira did not consume anything that would cause such colorful hallucinations. But he _did_ travel to the world of the dead, and that alone would only make sense to someone high.

The grit of the pavement has bitten into his cheek by the time he comes to. His head spins as the image of Yongen’s shrine ripples into clarity. Fatigue weaves into his bones, beckons him to return to unconsciousness. And for a second he listens to its voice, closes his eyes against the glaring sun. If it wouldn’t look strange, he would have slept right under its rays, but a high school student – hell, _anyone_ – sunbathing in the street would garner concerned phone calls and attention-seekers whipping out their phone and hitting record.

Besides, it was hard to relax when Ann’s voice blared into his ear.

“Akira-!” she consumes his line of sight, pupils dilated by panic, voice gripped by what he discerns as worry. “I-It’s Yusuke-! He’s not getting up!”

And sure enough, when he’s pulls himself to sit up, he spots Yusuke’s unconscious body a few feet away. Morgana sniffs cautiously, looks at Akira and meows.

Yusuke’s face is peaceful save for the cuts carved into his cheek. Akira’s hand fumbles for his pulse, feels it thrum against his fingertips. It marches to a tired tempo, beating to a metronome set to a double-digit beat. Weak, but still there.

“I tried waking him up, but he’s not budging,” Ann says from above him. Akira catches the flash of the familiar charms dangling from her phone. “Hold on, I’ll call—”

“Wait!” his hand snatches her wrist.

“Wha—?!” (he inwardly cringes as the phone clatters to the pavement.) She snatches her wrist back, holding it in her other hand. “Hey, what are you doing? He needs to see a doctor!”

“You can’t.”

“Why? We can’t just leave him like this!”

His mind begins to work, pries apart Café Leblanc.

The day’s still young, meaning Sojiro had yet to lock the doors and flip the sign. There was also the matter of _explaining_ to Sojiro why he was bringing Yusuke to Leblanc unconscious. _Again_. He trusts Sojiro to keep this secret tucked away. But Sojiro does not have the medical knowledge nor tools to deal with someone who collapsed without any warning.

And there was the matter of Yusuke’s cheek.

Morgana meows quietly, head lowered.

And if Yusuke were to wake up in a _hospital_ , there’d be hell to pay. Plus, he didn’t need the interrogation if his questionable driving skills caught the attention of a cop (“ _No, officer, we’re not kidnapping anyone; he’s just a friend with an empty wallet. Not that I checked or anything._ ”).

But a clinic...

A _clinic_...!

“Ann,” he says, rising to his feet. “Stay with Yusuke; I’m going to get help.”

“You just told me not to call anyone!”

“Just stay here.”

Maybe Ann says something, maybe she doesn’t, but it is drowned by the air that brushes against his face and into his ears as he tears down the streets. He rounds the right corners, spots the small building with the heart stamped into it, and pushes open with a little more force than necessary. Akira receives Takemi’s attention before the door even smacks the wall.

Admittedly, it is the first time she’s seen her so shocked before.

She blinks. “Can I help you...?”

“Yes,” he says, heart racing to his throat. “My friend, he collapsed by Leblanc and he’s not waking up.”

Takemi doesn’t hesitate, rising from her seat with eyes serious. She disappears into the back, emerging into the waiting room from her single office room. “What happened?” she asks maneuvering around him to open the door. “Has he fainted before?”

“I...” and he hesitates. The last time he fainted, his brain scrambles, had to have been that first night. “Not when he’s with us. This is the first time I’ve seen it happen.”

They garner attention from confused neighbors, extract a few mutterings and not so subtle glances. Takemi ignores them as does Akira. “It’ll be easier if I can move him back to my office. I can’t exactly do an examination out in the streets. If we can’t move him, then I’ll call for an ambulance—”

“You can’t do that.” Akira cuts off. “He can’t ride in them.”

She halts, her shoes scraping against the ground as she turns to leer at him. “We may not have a choice. You want what’s best for your friend, don’t you? Even if he doesn’t like ambulances, his safety comes first. I’ll do whatever’s necessary.” Takemi pauses to check the adjacent building. Akira recognizes the roof of Leblanc, the sign by the door. “Alright, show me where he is.”

And show her he does. They find Ann knelt by his side with Morgana. She hastily rises to her feet when they approach.

“Excuse me,” Takemi says, kneeling down by Yusuke’s unconscious body.

“O-Oh, sure,” Ann steps towards Akira, keeping her eyes on Takemi as she checks for a pulse. Quietly, she says, “I thought you said he refused to see a doctor.”

“He knows her through me,” Akira supplies.

Ann doesn’t look entirely convinced. “You trust her?”

He shrugs; his hands were tied.

Takemi slings one of Yusuke’s arms over her shoulder. She shoots Akira a narrowed-eyed glance. “Help carry him,” her voice is sturdier than when they spoke of the ambulance.

Akira nods.

Yusuke’s surprisingly warm.

 **???.** Hey. I heard you were back from the hospital.

 **???.** Sorry I didn’t visit you.

 **SHIHO.** Who is this?

 **???.** Someone who owes you an apology.

 **SHIHO.** For what?

 **???.** For pretending not to see.

 **SHIHO.** Huh?

 **???.** It’s fine if you don’t want to see me. I wouldn’t want to see me either. But can I talk to you? We can meet at Buchiko or some other place crowded with people if you don’t trust me. We’ll be in public. And if you really don’t want to see me... then tell me so I can say it now.

 **SHIHO.** Okay. I’ll be there in 15.

 **???.** Thank you, Suzui-san.

\--

It is less crowded in the evening, but there are still plenty of people walking by. They talk, pause to take pictures at Buchiko’s statue, and then there’s the politician standing by the subway stays who speaks of the ‘children’s future’. More correctly put: them, as in her generation.

He seemed like a kind-hearted man, having apologized even though _she_ had bumped into him, causing him to drop one of his picket signs. Yoshida Toranosuke, he had introduced himself that day.

But she is not here to see Yoshida, as nice as he is.

Shiho’s eyes meet Mishima’s before she takes the empty seat next to him.

The silence between them is different than the silence between her and Ann, her and the others. It is choked with an unspoken fear, that one of them was afraid if they so much as _breathed_ too quickly, the world could crumble apart.

And then, Mishima stands, faces her, then bows low at the waist. “Please forgive me, Suzui-san!” he says, and she notices the way he grips the fabric of his jeans. “For not helping you, for letting you go see Kamoshida alone, for not visiting you when you were at the hospital – all of it.”

“Mishima-kun...” she says quietly.

“I-I know,” he cuts off rather abruptly, standing straight again but with his gaze to the ground. “No matter how many times I say it, it’s not gonna undo the damage. I had been so selfish, wanting to go home after his training, that I... I didn’t look out for my team member. It was horribly selfish, and I get it if you hate me and never want to see me again. I’m asking for your forgiveness, but I won’t be upset if you can’t. Because I deserve _all_ of it – even Kamoshida’s abuse. It was punishment all along for not standing up for you.”

“It wasn’t punishment!” Shiho protests loudly, her voice yanking pure shock onto Mishima’s face. Fist clenched over her heart, she says softly, “No one… deserves to be abused, Mishima-kun. Each person he hurt – none of them asked for it. By the end, we were all so tired of it. I remember hearing someone... she wanted it all to stop, to cut the links that Kamoshida had forced onto her. Though we were all getting hurt, we didn’t always band together. And that’s because we... we were all tired of it.”

“I was,” Mishima agrees. “But you were too... So was Takamaki-san and Sakamoto-kun... They would’ve stayed for you, and Sakamoto-kun even went after Kamoshida, but me? I couldn’t even go _near_ him. He should’ve broken my leg, not his...! Because it was all my fault!”

Shiho shakes her head stiffly. “But it _wasn’t_. And neither was what he _did_ … He is a monster, and he is finally where he belongs, where he can’t hurt any of us anymore. So please, stop blaming yourself. It’s all over now,” she exhales quietly. “It’s okay.”

And she’s not sure if she’s saying this to _him_ or to herself.

Kamoshida couldn’t get them.

Kitagawa had mad sure of that.

He looks at her then. _Really_ looks at her. His face is wound with guilt, eyes shining with tears that threatened to fall at the right words. “I didn’t visit you...” he repeats, slumping back down. “I tried so many times, but I couldn’t. I’m a coward... nothing like Kurusu or Sakamoto-kun.”

Her back’s against the wall, the words stolen from her mouth. She can listen, be the ear that so many people refused to open. Or she could be the voice that reassured him, that gave him the forgiveness he felt he didn’t deserve.

“Sorry for calling you out here, Suzui-san,” Mishima rises to his feet again. “But I promised someone I would speak to you. I won’t bother you again if that’s what you want.”

It isn’t. That’s not what she wanted at _all_.

“...You want me to stay away, don’t you?”

“No,” she answers, honest. “Not if you’re going to keep blaming yourself. I was the same, Mishima; I blamed myself too.”

“But why? What do you have to blame yourself?”

Shiho joins him on the seat, hands resting in her lap. It’s not something she wants to admit to Mishima. She couldn’t say it to Ann, she couldn’t admit it to _herself_. “I want to know the same thing. What are you blaming yourself for?”

“For not helping.” his answer is swift.

And so is hers. “Neither of us could do anything, Mishima-kun. The adults wouldn’t listen and some of us knew it was hopeless to rise against him. If you’re going to blame yourself, then you’ll have to blame me too.”

It is amusing how quickly he can leaf through emotions. From guilt to shock, yet still cling to that sliver of regret. A part of her wonders if Mishima associates himself with it, that he is the catalyst for misfortune. She had felt that way one time too many.

“That’s stupid,” his voice whips in a hiss. “I’m not gonna blame you for... for what he did to you.”

“And I’m not blaming you for what happened,” she says firmly, eyebrows drawing together in a small frown. She will stand her ground on this matter, even if Mishima refuses to meet her halfway. “It’s nobody’s fault except his.”

It would be easier, she realizes, to look for an escape goat, to pin the blame on somebody other than Kamoshida. If she wished, she could have this small fragment of satisfaction in blaming each adult that turned their backs on her. Her homeroom teacher praised Kamoshida Suguru. Her parents saw no reason to mistrust him, finding his fake persona rather charming.

But in the end, pointing fingers would amount to nothing.

She’d trip over those she blamed again and again until she lost sight of recovery. And she could see it happening to Mishima too, in that he was looking for someone to blame in himself.

How could she not have thought about him?

A sharp _pinging_ noise fills the gap between them, and she tugs out her phone.

 **ANN [18:14].** Hey, I’m on my way now!

 **ANN [18:15].** Something came up, but it looks like it’s gonna be fine. ‘Till then, think of where you wanna eat, okay?

“Is everything alright, Suzui-san?” Mishima asks as she flicks the screen off. “Do you need to go home?”

She shakes her head. “It’s Ann. We had plans this evening...”

“Oh,” there was that guilt again. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Shiho didn’t want to leave him, but surely Ann wouldn’t mind the extra company, right? “Have you eaten yet?” she asks.

Her question strikes him off guard. “I, no, not yet.”

“Would you like to come with us? We can decide where to go.”

Mishima blinks, reaching for the hand she extends. Hesitation cuts in between his speech. “Are you... Are you sure you want to eat with... someone like me?”

When Shiho was knocked down a peg, she knew Ann would be there for her. She was a caring friend who placed others needs above her own. Shiho was climbing up that slope, hoping to be like Ann and be the ear so many people needed. To some, Mishima may have been viewed as a stepping stone to achieve a higher goal. But Shiho’s talked to him before; he’s not worth being trampled anymore than the next person.

His hand is warm, fitting quite perfectly in hers. “I’m positive,” she smiles softly. “I want to talk with you more, if it’s okay.”

And when Mishima’s head dips in a small nod, she knows it is.

Shido Masayoshi is nothing short of intimidating. His eyes are dark stones that sit in their narrowed sockets. The orange lens of the shades perched on his nose glint dully in the yellow light of the room as he looks down at him with a stare that would have students on their knees. Maybe it would have brought him down a peg too if not for the anger that was chewing at his insides, tearing open his stomach from the inside-out.

He's made students bend to his very whim - sometimes teachers too.

What did this arrogant fuck think he was?

His eyes slide to Akechi Goro, who watches him with that aggravating blank stare. Always judging, probably mocking him for being locked behind bars and turning around to share how he found some leaves and twigs in his room.

"It was an oni," Shido says, snagging his attention. "But it doesn't surprise me you made a pact with it. Life handed you awards and fortune, and you threw it to the wind for something you could never have," his lips twist into a sneer. "Your kind is selfish, ungrateful."

The pact, contract, whatever... His memories are the stubborn blur on the car windows that doesn't wipe away when he clicks the button. It had all been part of a dream with a voice that spoke in the void around him. He's talked to it before, but he can't conjure the damn image to his mind. What did it _look_ like? Staring into the mirror, all he could see was himself. But he was no demon. He was given power, but he was human.

He was innocent too!

"You gonna talk shit, or are you gonna help me?" Kamoshida snaps.

He almost regrets it.

Shido's sneer melts from his face, molding into undiluted irritation. "Oh how a king has fallen," he starts. "I was told you had a run-in with a kitsune, one that left a gateway opened for a human."

"He picked that up, not me," Kamoshida gestures to Akechi, ignoring the first comment. He'd get it coming.

"Bringing a human is taboo," Shido continues, as if Kamoshida had said nothing. "and since I can't seem to rely on the spirits to purge them from that world, I will have to do it myself. But I could use your assistance, Kamoshida Suguru. If you follow my orders, I can restore your reputation. Your criminal record will be wiped clean."

This was...

"...crazy. You both are insane, and a waste of my time. Clean my record, I don't give a damn, I just want whatever it is dead. The one who made that video." He recalls the fake tears streaming down the face that was both his and not, almost grimacing in disgust as the images roll through his mind again and again.

He sees their faces, the one of that exchange student, of Sakamoto, of Takamaki... They blend together, mesh in his head until he can discern Suzui. Horror and helplessness blend in her eyes, like the deer he hit in the road the night back from that school meeting. She was just as helpless as that deer, he was the truck on the highway, and it felt _great_ when he pried her fingers from the edge of her pride.

She was strong. But he was stronger.

No one was stronger than him - especially not some mousy girl like Suzui Shiho.

' _And that bitch won out anyway..._ '

"If it is power you want, I can give you it."

His teeth chip the edge of his thumbnail, a stupid nail-biting habit he couldn't break from his youth.

Power.

Yes.

That's what he wanted.

To right all the wrongs that had been done on him, and to kill that imposter.

A clicking noise pierces the unnatural quiet of the room. He turns his head, stares down the barrel of the gun. His mouth opens in shock, jerking up from the bed to back pedal with hands up. It is hard to speak around the heart in his throat. "What the _fuck-_ "

Shido's laugh ricochets off the walls, deep, but as annoying as nails on a chalkboard that rake their claws down his ear canal. "For all your arrogance, you cower like the rest of them at the sight of a weapon."

His teeth grit loudly, and he has half a mind not to clamp on his tongue from spewing profanities that would send his very soul beyond hell...

What the fuck was he talking about? Gods didn't exist. Neither did a heaven or a hell.

"Shido-san," Akechi speaks under Shido's laugh. "They'll be doing a second prison sweep in the next twenty minutes."

He scoffs, but the smirk remains glued to his mouth. "I'm aware. Which is why we're going to carry out our meeting somewhere else."

They're crazy. They're all batshit, fucking insane, and he was going to die with his head full of hatred and confusion and fear.

The gun explodes.

And maybe there is a hell and he's bathing in its very fires. He's falling, but there's nothing to stare at but the dancing of unnatural flames that crawl along his body, worm down his throat and burning his very insides. His scream tears his throat, makes it ache and strain, and he's gonna lose his damn voice, but it fucking _hurt_.

Something inside him _grows_ , and he feels it tugging at his limbs, extracting the very bone from his skull, and he feels every twist and bend as they mold into... _somethings_ on his head. Amid the screaming, his teeth must have grown too, because the instant he slams his mouth shut, he tastes the burn of copper.

Long have the flames died down, and yet he can't stop his body from spazzing on the grass, caught in some weird dance of agony.

He feels pressure digging into his arm, burying against his bone.

"No more-!" the words flee him out of the last vestiges of his panic. He tugs free, draws his arms to his face, and he freezes. This...

...wasn't his body.

Except it was. His legs have grown at least a foot or two... maybe more. If he had this growth spurt back in his golden days, then he'd have another shelf for medals and trophies alike. But that was Then, and he can't go back to Then as much as he'd like. His fingers comb through familiar dark hair before they bump into those somethings from earlier.

Bone. Hard and dry.

"Get up," Shido snaps.

He doesn't know why he does, but he finds himself pushing himself off the ground. "What'd you do to me?"

As it is, Shido is shorter than him, but he is still as intimidating as the gun that stared him down seconds earlier. "Fitting for a man driven by desire," (and wouldn't it feel good to smack that arrogant smile off his face.) "It's a good look for you."

His hands tighten into fists, his new claws scraping against the solid flesh of his palms. The hesitance that blocked his mind from earlier is swept aside, and his body follows the familiar movements as he reels his fist back before he surges forward, knuckles a hair away from Shido's face.

The world does a complete 360 and by the time his back meets the ground, the wind has already been sapped from his lungs. It takes a while to piece together what the fuck just happened, but when he looks up, he's only meant with unamused stares. Humiliation flushes through him, spikes of fear tingle along his spine, and it's enough to get him back on his feet.

What the hell were these people?

"Consider yourself fortunate, Kamoshida Suguru," Shido does not extend a hand. Not that he was expecting it. "Your fate led you right into the path of a God. As long as you swear your loyalty, your wish can be granted."

"A _God_?" laughter bubbles from his lips, and honestly, the whole thing is just so ridiculous and funny what else was he supposed to do by laugh? He'd wake up in his cell and recall the events of this dream and laugh a little more.

This man, this newborn politician who wanted to rule the country, was comparing himself to a God. A fucking _God_.

"Demigod," and the correction is so natural that he laughs some more. "Now stop chortling like the animal you are. You are in the presence of two people whose blood was blessed by the higher ups."

 _Demigod?_ Which made Mr. Detective Prince over there a quarter-God, right? Holy shit... Holy fucking _shit_ this was hilarious. The tears beading at the corner of his eyes are real this time - and his own.

To think all of this happened because he went after Suzui. Because Suzui jumped off the building.

All of this over a high school girl because he grew drunk with the blood of a demon.

He was disgusting and he knew it.

Fuck. This was going to be a helluva story to tell!

And then he coughs.

His hand flies to his mouth, palm scraping along chapped lips. He only _glimpses_ the dark fluid before he's coughing again and again. Something jams in his throat as it crawls up, up, up, spilling into his mouth and tasting distinctly like blood before it ejaculates from his mouth. Long, strings of dark fluid drip from his fingers, dropping to the grass and tainting it black.

The burning returns.

It is the third time he's knocked on the ground.

"As you can see," Shido circles him slowly, and Akechi watches with that damn unreadable face. But Kamoshida's too damn focused on not trying to drown in his own blood to give a fuck what that brat is thinking. "This is not within a human's capabilities."

His heart, the organ that once jammed itself in his throat, beats faster and faster, pumping blood and agony both in and out. He scrabbles at his chest, spitting out a globule of black substance.

"You've been given a second chance. Perhaps you should accept it instead of trying to fight against the one who gave it to you." Shido's voice is a hammer that keeps smacking the nail into the back of his brain.

Shut up, shut up, _shut up_!

The voice that speaks this time is not Shido's. "That's enough. We need him alive."

He gags like a cat with a stubborn hairball, hunched on all fours with his jaw slack as he spits both saliva and black blood. They talk over him, and numbly, he listens.

Shido turns on Akechi. "People like him are easily replaceable," his voice never picks up in urgency. "And nobody is going to notice if he disappears because nobody cares about a washed up medalist who's got his head so far down memory lane."

"Even he has use," Akechi counters. "There is no reason to take away his unnatural blood. Instead, give him time. He'll learn not to cross your path."

The pain leaves, but he's not sure for how long. So he doesn't move. He plays dead, looking like a fucking rag doll. It's not that he _wants_ to stay immobile; his fear overrides his senses.

Fear.

Hah.

He was scared. He was fucking scared like a God damn child.

Shido's foot crushes against his head. "You're right," and Kamoshida couldn't explain why - nor would he ever get the chance to - but the next words that came from Shido Masayoshi had filled him with an indescribable dread.

"We'll bring him to my shrine."

“I couldn’t find anything wrong with him. It could be something as simple as fatigue,” Takemi studies Akira with a careful look from behind her desk. “And you’re sure he’s never done this before?”

The waiting room held its breath in anticipation.

Ann had left when they managed to successfully transport Yusuke without too many prying questions from the neighborhood. She waited for the diagnosis, refusing to leave until Akira, and by extension, Takemi, had told her it was alright. There was the promise of meeting tomorrow, to talk before their classes started. And then there was something about Shiho and Ryuji.

But in that moment, he couldn’t recall her exact words.

Akira shakes his head. “No.”

“I see... Then, would you care to tell me the results of the medicine I gave you?”

He says nothing, confusion clogging his throat.

“You do remember, right? The one I gave to you that day,” she continues, frowning in suspicion. “That medicine is custom made, but it should have helped cure any lightheadedness. I wonder if you needed it for these types of emergencies.”

Sitting on his desk back at Leblanc, there were two pill bottles untouched, lid twisted tighty. Yusuke had needed them once.

“They’re not cheap to make,” Takemi sighs. “You were supposed to come back a week later, remember? Or were they for him?” at his reluctance, she continues, “If you’re honest with me, I can have him stay the night until he gets better. I won’t charge either of you, and you can have access after hours if you’d like.”

Akira raises an eyebrow. It was a generous tradeoff just for honesty. “Yusuke refuses to get medical treatment,” he answers. “It was the only way I could help without bringing him here.”

“I see... Thank you for being honest.”

He half expects her to start scribbling something down on her papers, a report she could look back on should there be a smidge of a chance that he was lying. Instead, she reels her chair back, reaches for something below her desk. The keys land with a loud clang against the countertop, screeching softly as she pushes them towards Akira. “As promised.”

...That was it?

“Although...”

Nope.

“I would appreciate it if you could tell me about the effects of my medicine. Do that, and I will overlook any of his future checkups.”

He pockets the keys, feeling the cold metal against his thigh. “How else can I help?”

“I’ll give you another sample,” she responds. “I could use your cooperation if you and your friend would be willing to be my test subjects. They helped him the first time, yes?”

Yusuke hadn’t fainted afterwards, as far as he knew. “It would be better if he told you.”

She hums her acknowledgement. “Have you told your guardian about all of this?”

“Not yet,” he says. “He’d be worried if he knew.”

“It’s better to tell the truth than to lie. If he finds out later, the consequences will be bigger,” Takemi pulls open the door to the exam room, slings her purse over her shoulder as she flicks the lock. Akira catches a glimpse of Yusuke’s unconscious before she steps into the waiting room. “I trust you won’t meddle with the shelves or my records. Each time you’re here after hours, I’ll leave you a sample to try in between your next visit. Of course, should you not hold up your end of the bargain, we can always look into the more advanced hospitals in Shibuya.”

Akira feels the blood in his veins grow cold. This wasn’t a _threat_ , was it? After all, she had made the offer in the first place.

But Yusuke couldn’t afford the hospital, and there was a larger risk of being exposed as a kitsune. Takemi wasn’t one to call the police or report some weird phenomenon if she was willing to preform medical chemistry in her basement like some mad scientist. Compared to one person and a group of doctors and nurses, the risk was much lower.

Welll... Surely the medicine couldn’t taste as bad as that Nyquil stuff, right...?

“...I’m kidding,” she sighs, unamusement twisting her eyebrows. “You don’t have to give me that look.”

He blinks, heart pausing a split second as if it too wanted to hear. “Oh,” is all he can manage.

“For larger emergencies, a lot of the people in Yongen prefer to visit Shibuya. I don’t have too many customers, so those that do come by are usually regulars. Meaning I can keep that room reserved for you and your friend until he’s better,” she explains. “Don’t worry too much about the clinical trials; do them whenever you can.”

“Thank you for all of this,” he finds himself saying as she hangs up her white coat.

“Don’t mention it,” Takemi says, a small smile pulling at her lips. She looks a lot better when she does that, he realizes. “Make sure to lock up when you’re finished here.”

At the shut of the door, Morgana tumbles out of his bag. He sniffs the floor before recoiling in disgust, looks at Akira and meows.

“I still can’t understand you,” Akira sighs.

Morgana glowers. He races over Akira’s toes to the exam room. There’s the sound of scraping and pulling shortly after.

“Hey, don’t do that!” he hisses quietly, picking up Morgana under the arms. There’s a _tiny_ scratch mark etched into the blue of the door. He sees a peak of the wood beneath it. “Dammit, Morgana...”

The door knob jerks awake when Akira throws it open, letting Morgana leap from his arms so he can sprint up to Yusuke’s bed.

His scratch is bandaged, a white wad plastered over where the three scratches should be. Breathing is soft, and though Takemi just did the examination, he can’t stop himself from searching for Yusuke’s pulse along his neck. Strong _er_ , but not enough for him to wake.

It’s the first time he’s able to touch Yusuke without worrying about a reaction. He wants to examine the scratch himself, but he trusted Takemi as a doctor. The thought that toyed with his mind, swirling until they split into fractals, was certainly _not_ about the mark on his cheek.

If he were to peel back Yusuke’s shirt, unhook the buttons sewn into the dark fabric, would he see a collage of bruises? Or would the skin be as pale and unmarred as the other side of his face?

Not that he’d actually _do_ such a thing. Hadn’t there been enough unsolicited kissing in stories as it was? The last thing he wants to be caught doing is undoing Yusuke’s shirt, even _if_ the tables had been reversed that one time.

His own wounds have sealed as well, leaving faint scars in their wake.

“ _Meow..._ ”

“He’ll be fine,” Akira assures, opting to pull up a seat. “We’ve had a long day, and he may just be tired.”

Morgana does not respond. He leaps onto the bed, curling against Yusuke’s side.

There’s a folded blanket at Yusuke’s feet, pale blue and thin. It was better than nothing, but Akira certainly wouldn’t mind lending the comforter on the back of of the couch. He shakes this one loose, draping it over Yusuke.

“ _M-Mraw!!_ ” Morgana pops his head free, shooting Akira with an accusatory stare.

He chuckles. “Sorry.”

On the desk across from the bed is a stack of papers and medical tools he can’t put a name to. He knows better than to touch them, but he can’t help himself from eyeing the bottle of suspicious red liquid sitting adjacent to a manilla file. Takemi must have planned this well in advance, knowing she could bargain free care for Yusuke and access to the clinic for serving as a guinea pig for Medical Chemistry.

Tonight, he doesn’t see a cup.

Akira leans back in his seat with a sigh, cutting himself off with a sharp wince. He reaches behind himself, pressing his fingers delicately against his back.

Strange, he frowns in discomfort. When he was in the other world, he hadn’t felt the pain of having been thrown through the shoji. But with the adrenaline of the previous events having drained from his body, his muscles scream anew.

Had it been the same for Yusuke?

“I’m fine,” he says at Morgana’s curious look. His eyes scan to Yusuke’s face, ears tuning to his soft breathing. If not for the bandage, he would think Yusuke was simply napping.

There was still so much he had to know. But that yearning would have to be suppressed; Yusuke’s health came first.

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Akira says. Morgana seems to understand, glancing at Yusuke when he returns to Akira’s schoolbag. “There’s not much we can do.”

His hand pauses over the light switch. He waits for... For what? It wasn’t as if Yusuke was going to wake up in that moment. That would be too easy.

“Goodnight, Yusuke.”

The lights close their eyes.

Just the slightest amount of pressure threatens to spring tears to his eyes. The pain taunts him, holds a knife to his throat and dares him to break down in front of his friends,

(“ _What? You gonna cry?” his father jeers. “Men don’t fucking cry... Grow the hell up!!”_

 _He still recalls each star that lit up his vision the instant his father’s fist crashed into his right eye._ )

but Akira is quick, firm hand steadying Ryuji by the crook of his elbow.

“I’m fine,” Ryuji mutters, but it comes out harsher than intended. He cringes as Akira’s fingers loosen. “Sorry... It ain’t your fault.”

Akira shakes his head, helps guide him to the couch. “Don’t be.”

“Is it really okay for you to be walking around?” Ann asks, concern brimming her eyes.

He shrugs. “They told me ‘bout a few exercises... Haven’t done ‘em that much unless the nurse is here. Right now, just practicin’ with the whole weightbearing thing.” Ryuji glares at the silver crutch leaning against the arm at the other end of the couch. It looks back innocently. “Hurts less though, so guess that’s somethin’...”

And he’s already tired of talking about this.

“Thanks for droppin’ by,” he says. “So, you wanted to talk about that Madarame guy? And before we begin, you both remember I know jack shit about art, yeah?”

Akira scoffs, “It’s a little more complicated than that...”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

Ann looks to Akira, but he does not return the gesture. Just _what_ the hell was going on? “Do you remember what you told me back in the hospital about Kamoshida?”

Eerie gold in place of dark irises... dilated pupils... Ryuji’d be lying if he said there were nights when they did _not_ haunt his dreams. It was something he couldn’t entrust to his mother either. She would never turn against him, call him crazy, but he knows she would never believe this.

He wanted to believe demons and monsters stayed confined in their storybooks. But after sharing a roof with the thing that was his father, he knew it couldn’t be true.

“What about it?” Ryuji presses cautiously.

“Akira,” Ann cuts in. “Are you sure about this...?”

Since arriving in the hospital, all he got was ‘beating around the bush’, timid doctors that didn’t want to spill anything that leaned towards bad news. “I’m right here, you know,” he quips. “Just tell me already.”

Ann gives him a look, but they ignore her. “Yesterday, we found Madarame’s atelier thanks to one of of Ann’s acquaintences,” Akira begins. “Long story short, Kamoshida may not be the only one who wasn’t completely human.”

...What?

“...What?” he says.

“Gold eyes, teeth and claws...” Ann chips in as if reading off a list. “He had them all, and he... cut Yusuke’s cheek open with just his nails. Well, _claws_ , I guess... But Yusuke’s in trouble. He has been for a while, and we need to help him.”

His mind flickers back to that night. “ _You look like shit_ ”, he had said to Yusuke. And Ryuji curses himself for not noticing earlier. Really, how could he have _missed_ the signs when he too was a victim? A new rage builds within him, blood pounding against his brian loudly. God, he was so insensitive sometimes. “You’re saying Madarame is a monster too, and that he beats around Yusuke?”

“There’s more to it, but... yeah, he did.” Akira confirms, looking away.

“And he didn’t say anything to you either, did he, Akira?” Ann says slowly.

Akira shakes his head. There’s something else there, Ryuji notices it in the way Akira seems to fixate on the floor.

“What bullshit...!” Ryuji’s fist slams against the empty seat beside him. He didn’t know Yusuke like Akira. But Yusuke was still his friend. He had let one shitty adult get away with hitting kids; he wasn’t going to let another. “We’re not just gonna let him go, right? What’re your ideas?”

“What about your leg?” Ann interjects.

Ryuji bristles. “What about it? I’m not gonna let some broken limb keep me from helpin’.”

“That’s not—” she exhales, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You’ll have to do a lot of walking,” Akira says, and geez, even _he_ was looking at his leg. “And I don’t know exactly what we have to do. Yusuke will.”

“Look, I’ll walk to freaking Osaka if I have to,” an obvious exaggeration, and he feels a nerve in his leg jump at the implication. “So let’s just call Yusuke, tell him that I’m in, and change this guy already. If he’s been hurting Yusuke, he’s been hurting others too, yeah? Didn’t you see Madarame was a teacher?”

“About that... He can’t really... talk right now,” Ann chooses her words carefully. “When we got back from that spirit world, he fainted and uh, he still hasn’t woken up.”

The hell?

Akira adds, “We can still plan in advance. Morgana can help us.”

“How, with JSL?” Ann frowns, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t know about you, but I _still_ can’t understand a word that comes out of his mouth.” she pauses. “He’s not saying weird things about me, is he?”

Ryuji throws his hands out. “Okay, okay, hold up!” his voice bursts out of him. “Spirit world? What is that? And Morgana as in the _cat_ Morgana? What the hell can he do?”

If that was a side effect of going to this “spirit” world, he’d have to mentally prepare himself for that. Although it would be interesting to know what the cat who hung around the convenience store was meowing all the time.

“Maybe you need to explain...” Ann sighs, crossing one leg over the other. “You’ve been there longer than I have after all.”

His gaze locks with Akira’s. “Are you sure?” he asks.

“That’s what I’ve been sayin’,” Ryuji frowns. “If there’s something we can do, we should do it. I’ll figure it out with the leg, but you’re not gonna exclude me from this. I couldn’t do anything last time ‘side from charge in without a plan. But if you got one now, lay it on me.”

Ann doesn’t look entirely convinced, still worried no doubt. But all he needs to see is the tiny smirk that pulls at Akira’s mouth. “We won’t push you too hard.”

He can’t fight back the smile of his own, genuine for the first time in months.

\--

Akira’s hands are still shaking by the time he finishes jotting down the immediate after effects of the red-dyed medicine. It seized his tongue with a bitterness worse than black coffee. He was thankful Ryuji had given him that carbonated drink from earlier. Sure it prickled his mouth down to his very stomach, but it was better than the horrid flavor of that red liquid.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand once. Twice. Blanches. Morgana’s meow is either amused or concerned – Akira couldn’t tell anymore.

(“ _Still no signs of waking up,”_ Takemi had said upon his arrival that night. “ _I want to keep him here one more night. But if nothing changes, we may have to move him to the hospital in Shibuya._ ”

“ _He can’t—”_

“ _He needs a professional,_ ” she said sternly.

Akira protested, “ _You_ are _one. I trust you more than I do any of those doctors crammed in their fancy three story building._ ”

...

“ _That’s a lot of faith to put in one person...”_

 _“Not when it isn’t misplaced._ ”

“ _Good answer,_ ” she smiled wryly. “ _Fine. You want him to stay here, then just keep showing up for your clinical trials.”_ )

Yusuke had not woken up the first day.

He had not woken up the second.

He had not woken up the third.

There is exactly 2 hours until the stroke of midnight on day four. In between day one and now, Akira tried to busy himself with school work, assisting Ryuji with Ann after classes, formulating hypothetical plans, which were really his own speculations about the spirit world.

He leaves out that voice and the black face and the red eyes. Again.

But Ann ponders about Yusuke. About what he _is_.

Akira did not answer that.

“I figured you’d be the one to break the news,” Akira speaks quietly giving the comforter a tug when Morgana refuses to move. “You’re probably angry that I told them so much about your world. But back there, you committed yourself too. We want this to end just as much as you do.”

He doesn’t expect to be given a response.

Akira leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled. “You’re starting to worry me, Yusuke,” he finds himself saying. The scratch on his cheek was gone. Either Takemi had provided him with an ultra healing salve, or maybe it was Yusuke’s kitsune blood that caused such a swift recovery. “I don’t want to, but if we need to confront Madarame ourselves, we will. People are starting to look for you.”

Not once had he heard ‘Kitagawa Yusuke’ passed around in hushed voices carried on a train until yesterday morning. ‘Kitagawa Yusuke’, ‘second year at Kosei’, ‘student of Madarame Ichiryusai’. He hurried through Shibuya’s underground that same afternoon, scanning the missing signs for a familiar face.

He should have been overjoyed to not see Yusuke’s name printed.

He wasn’t.

Something was off, something didn’t feel right, and Madarame appeared on the news less and less. Talk of his exhibit was heard, but they could never seem to pull him over for an interview.

Something was coming.

And Akira didn’t know if they were ready.

“I never did get to thank you properly, did I?” he sighs, slouches against the chair, hands resting on the armrests. It really was comfortable despite its age; no wonder Takemi refused to throw it out. “You’re a generous person. You hardly knew any of us and yet you went after Kamoshida alone.” He tilts his head back, narrows his eyes at the ceiling. “It’s frustrating too. You give, but you never take. I don’t understand why you hid Madarame’s true nature from me—” ( _or maybe I do_ ) “—but I want to help you. Not to return the favor. You’ve become important to me, just as Ann and Shiho.”

Yusuke was different from them though. He was guarded, a little bizarre with his ability to see art in anything that existed and his weird speech pattern. He’s also a kitsune which, as far as Akira knew, Ann and Shiho were not. But who knew? If Yusuke could turn into their sleazy ex-gym teacher, anything was possible, right? Maybe Ann had a cat tail; _that’d_ be something to see.

He yawns suddenly, the all-too-familiar grip of fatigue tugging at his limbs and mind. “I suppose that’s what makes you special. You’d risk your life to help someone but not ask for anything in return,” and slowly, his eyes slide shut against the burning of the overhead lights. “It’s okay to have secrets. I have one of my own. Maybe when things are better, I’ll tell you about it some time.”

If only he had talked this much with Yusuke when he was _awake_. But as always, it was easier to talk to untuned ears.

(When that’s all he grew up on, of course it had been easy to do.)

Morgana grumbles, making one of those weird cat noises that could be described as a little trill – Akira wasn’t sure. The lights hanging over them serves as a fragile barrier between him and what would soon be a deep sleep.

“When you’re awake though...” he whispers.

The last thing he remembers is closing his eyes.


	13. Chapter 12

He cracks his eyes open, pushing at a thick comforter that practically suffocates him. Yusuke blinks, frowning at the unfamiliar light blue walls, the white of the ceiling. His nose practically recoils at the overwhelming smell of medicine and other chemicals he was not often exposed to. He did hate visits to the doctors after all.

“I see you’re finally awake.”

Yusuke sits up, whipping his head in the sound of the voice, suspicion tugging his face into a glare. It does little to deter the young woman standing at the door.

“Relax,” she exhales. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

That much, he supposes, had been obvious. He does not recognize this person, but he _does_ recognize the one sitting – sleeping, his mind corrects – in the chair adjacent. Akira’s head is slouched against his shoulder, a rather uncomfortable position to fall asleep in, but Yusuke’s done the same before, having fallen asleep in a chair one too many back at the atelier.

He must still look angry for the young woman says, “Don’t be upset with him. He told me you didn’t like doctor visits. But there wasn’t much he could do when you passed out like that.”

Yusuke blinks at her “I... passed out.”

“Four days.”

His heart stutters, clings to the walls of his throat. “F-Four days...?” he echoes.

“Does this happen often?”

Yusuke hesitates. The longest time his ‘mini-comas’ lasted were... two days at most. Four was a new record. But she doesn’t know what he is, and something tells him Akira wouldn’t spill his secret to her. “I must’ve overworked myself,” not an entire lie. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to worry anyone.” he pauses, narrowing his eyes at her. “We’ve... met before, have we not?”

She hums an affirmative. “I was wondering how long it’d take for you to notice. You had me worried there; I thought the shot I gave you was beginning to cause some memory relapse.”

“You gave me a shot...?”

“I’m kidding...” she sighs. “You were the one who was helping Sakura-san at Leblanc that day, yes? Do you still work part-time there?”

Yusuke does not answer. His gaze flits back to Akira, notices Morgana curled up in his lap asleep as well. He never worked part-time – that was obvious. But now that he thinks on it, he had yet to repay the favor to Sakura.

“I don’t know how close you two are,” Takemi continues. “but he was here a lot more than your other friends.” (he looks to her in mild surprise.) “Yesterday, I had to send him home at 5 in the morning. And that blanket certainly didn’t come from me.”

Of course it didn’t. The scent of the comforter smelled like Leblanc’s attic, of Morgana’s pelt, of Akira himself. It was indistinguishable.

Akira is peaceful in sleep, and it’s the clamest he’s seen him for the past several days. A part of him wonders if _he_ could bring this out in Akira. Would Akira ever feel this comfortable around Yusuke to let his guard down? They shared a room on more than one occasion, but this was different.

Even now, Akira was still watching over him.

Something warm flutters in his stomach, bittersweet mixture of warmth and guilt.

There was a time once when he fell ill from a common cold that had been passed from one student’s unclean hands to another. Madarame had shrugged off the coughing fits, the fever that made his head want to burst from intense heat and pain alone. But if he searched a little harder, he could make out a student that would frequent twice the breaks, gave him their leftover meal even though Yusuke had already been satiated

(he never did turn down food though)

and the warmth he felt then was much like the one he felt now.

The noodles of that homemade soup they pressed to his lips had tasted a little hard, broth having chilled to a lukewarm temperature, but that was okay.

Genuine concern and worry for another person – another _human_ – was rare. And though his gratitude in that student had proven to be useless the instant they succumbed to self-loathing and hate, the care could not be easily forgotten.

It was all the more reason to stop Madarame.

To stop pushing away Akira.

“If you need to, you can stay a little longer,” Takemi opens the door to the waiting room, looking back at them over her shoulder. “But don’t be afraid to come back if you’re feeling unwell. Whatever reason you have for avoiding the doctor’s will be kept here.”

“Thank you,” Yusuke finds himself saying.

She smiles.

The door closes quietly.

He sits there in silence, unsure who to wake first. In the end, it wouldn’t matter; Akira would shift, wake Morgana, or Morgana himself would open his large mouth and spew some nonsense.

If only he could capture this moment on paper.

But this was not Leblanc, and Yusuke’s sure he’s overstayed his welcome.

He rises from the bed, sways just slightly from the dizziness that pulses in and out of his vision. Gently, he places a hand on Akira’s shoulder, shakes him once.

“Akira,” Yusuke says softly. He leans back, Akira mumbling in his sleep before slowly coming to. Akira’s glasses press against his face as he rubs the heel of his palm against his eye.

He blinks slowly, focus strengthening as he pulls himself further from sleep.

“Good morning,” Yusuke says simply.

“You’re awake...?” Akira says groggily, running a hand down his face. “How long?”

“That’s all you can say?” Morgana pipes up. “Just ‘good morning’? Do you have any idea how much you worried us?”

Always loud, it seemed. Yusuke reaches for the comforter, folding it over once. “Sorry. Traveling from one world to another is normally not an issue for me, but...” he grips the fabric of his shirt, right over his heart. He almost feels the phantom pain clenching at his chest again, digging its nails into his flesh and threatening to break the skin. “...Madarame is a lot stronger than I gave him credit for.”

“What do you mean?” Akira asks, and he hears the rumbling of the chair as it’s tucked back by the desk.

A bracelet, a silver, white jewel that should not be there... Yusuke shakes his head. “Don’t worry yourself over it.”

Morgana springs onto the bed. “That’s not suspiscious,” he quips. “Why are you hiding things from us?”

Yusuke ignores him as he finishes folding Akira’s comforter. “Traveling to the spirit world without being at a shrine can have consequences for me. It isn’t the first time I’ve slept for more than one day straight,” he turns, not missing the suspicion that hikes in Morgana’s eyes. “We should move somewhere quieter to discuss our next plan of action.”

“He’s gonna find out, you know,” Morgana mutters.

Akira nods. “Let’s get you something to eat first,” he offers, placing his bag adjacent to Morgana. Embarrassingly enough, Yusuke’s stomach speaks before he can. “There’s a diner in Shibuya we can go to.”

The diner that instantly comes to mind is the one next to that bookstore at the corner. As it is, his wallet is back in Madarame’s atelier, undoubtedly empty at this point. Madarame probably swiped him down to the last yen coin; Yusuke would have no need for it after all. And no money meant no food.

“Do you have somewhere else in mind?” he wasn’t going to suggest Leblanc when he was still in Sakura’s debt. Pride had that effect on his words. “I would prefer somewhere quiet and pleasing to the eye.”

Morgana coughs. “Geez, you’re so picky...”

Akira fixes Morgana with a frown. “You’re quite vocal today,” he mutters, looking to Yusuke. “What’s he saying?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “He says your sense of aesthetic is lacking.”

“...Really now?” he almost _pouts_ , and Yusuke would be lying if he said he didn’t find it amusing. “Thanks a lot, Morgana.”

The fur on Morgana’s back stands tall and his mouth slacks open. “W-What the hell, Yusuke?!” he turns to Akira, tail flicking. “T-That’s not what I said! Don’t listen to him! He’s lying!”

This was too much fun. If the opportunity presented itself again, he’d take it if only to see that amusing jaw-drop a second time. “Shall we be off?”

“Wait, wait, he doesn’t _really_ think I said that, does he?” Morgana cries as Akira begins to pull the zipper. “Yusuke!”

“Try to be quiet,” Akira says. “Takemi won’t like that I’ve brought you in here.”

Takemi herself looks up as they push open the door. Her brows crease into a small frown. “Should you really be heading out so soon?” she asks. “Why don’t you let me give you an examination first?”

There’s a small clock that sits at the corner of Takemi’s desk. At 6am, he wonders if there are any restaurants open at such an hour. His stomach certainly hoped so, but there wasn’t a fair correlation between hoping and receiving, he noticed. If he wanted, he could always return to the spirit world to consume one of the offerings. As for payment for eating off an altar... well, he was never one to leave stones unturned. There’d be a way to return the favor.

He shakes his head in response. “I’m quite alright,” he responds. “I tend to overwork myself and the result is this. Should something happen again, I won’t hesitate to contact you,” and he pushes himself to bow at the waist, to showcase his generosity in the only way he knows how when it came to adults. “I deeply appreciate your help. I will pay you back in due time.”

“There’s no need for that,” she chuckles lightly. “Normally, I would have to schedule a checkup in a week or so, but as long as you promise to take care of yourself, I suppose I could look this over.”

“Thank you,” he says, glimpsing a cross between a smirk and a genuine smile before they depart.

Yongen-Jaya blares to life in his ears, and he can pick out the different beats against the pavement – a child, an adult, an animal’s – from around the corner, up the street, out of his line of sight. At such an early hour, he is unfamiliar with the morning tasks each individual person seems to hurry to fulfill. But he knows the store is opening, can pick up on the freshness of produce from well over a mile away. Buried underneath is the stale scent of coffee from a morning brew.

His stomach gurgles again. Four days truly was quite a record.

“Do you want to visit Leblanc?” Akira asks, comforter stuffed under his arm. “I have to drop this off before we get on the trains.” And he must catch on the hesitation clinging to Yusuke’s face. “Don’t worry; Sojiro doesn’t open until half past seven.”

The reek of fresh food singes his nose. If only he had money... “Very well then,” he finds himself saying.

He follows Akira in comfortable silence then, notices how Morgana has quieted since they left the exam room. Eventually he’d apologize for messing with him... just not yet. It wasn’t wrong for him to have a little fun occasionally.

Takemi’s words filter back into his brain. He wonders how long it took for Akira to fall asleep in such an uncomfortable position, head lolled to the side while his mind drifted in undisturbed sleep. Or maybe it was disturbed by the dreams and nightmares. He wonders, what did Akira dream of?

It’s a little thought that he toys back with, if only to distance himself from giving a half-hearted thank you in public.

To say Yusuke had been touched by such news was an understatement.

“Yusuke,” Akira draws to a halt at the intersection to Leblanc, looks at him over his shoulder. “About what happened at the atelier—”

“ _Hey! Hey, you!_ ”

He starts, whipping around to search for the offender. His gaze falls on the tiny, familiar beige colored dog – a _pup_ really – with the pointed ears and pointed snout. It’s curly tail wags back and forth like a metronome, but it doesn’t stop yapping.

“ _You! You smell different! You’re the kitsune from earlier!”_ White teeth flash from drawn lips, and it bounces on its front paws eagerly. “ _Play with me! Play_!”

And Yusuke feels the familiar poke against the top of his head, feels the eyes of one or two neighbors that eye the scene with confusion and mild annoyance. These little whelps did an admirable job of sniffing out what wasn’t human.

He allows himself to glare at the innocent puppy, fangs forcing through his gums as his own lips draw back in a snarl. Through clenched fists, his own claws dig into his palms, enough to ache. Yusuke forces every ounce of anger into a command: “Leave me be, whelp!”

The words lash at the dog, who recoils with an offended whimper, and Yusuke tears past Akira before he can see it scamper off. He ducks into the alley across from Leblanc. There’s an entrance to a bathhouse as well as a room with several washing machines and dryers. He barely sets foot in the laundry room when his ears poke stubbornly free.

Dogs...

Annoying creatures that stirred some innate hunting fear the instant their eyes crossed.

It was a rather pathetic display.

He presses against them with the palm of his right hand, feeling them press rather uncomfortably against his skull. There’s a pattern to Akira’s hurried steps, and Yusuke watches as he steps around the corner. Yusuke removes his hand. Akira stares as the ears stand erect.

“We should get you inside,” he says plainly.

The ears fold back as Yusuke lowers his gaze, embarrassment rushing through him. “I agree.”

Akechi Goro watches in quiet observation as the very trees and ground lift like panels, swapping with the unusual crystal blue and white of the sky. He shifts the magatama between his fingers, a poor distraction for the thoughts tormenting his mind.

Masayoshi Shido could change reality simply with a wave of his hand. Someone so dedicated to the gods and his ideals was given a blessing far too generous for his trials. Akechi himself could form contracts, speak to malicious spirits and bend them to their will, but he could never warp reality.

Years and years of visiting and adapting to the spirit world amounted to nothing. His breath was natural, well accustomed to the air compared to his first year. After all, he only had a _drop_ of Shido's blessing.

And yet...

A mere _human_ was able to walk through the world with hardly a lick of trouble. To rub salt in the wounds, it was the human so closely tied to the kitsune. Kurusu Akira walked in, made the world his own, and was still alive with not a scratch on him from the demon Kamoshida's claws.

It wasn't... fair.

The energy Kurusu radiated was alarmingly tremendous. His body was that of a human, but his soul was something else. When they first met in Ueno, he felt nothing. But since that damned kitsune brought him to this world...

 _Snap_.

The magatama breaks like glass, cut clean down the center. ' _It's another reason why humans should never cross into the world of the dead,'_ he thinks bitterly, reaching into his pocket for a second stone. They were disposable keystones, easy to obtain at the cheap jewelry store by his school. ' _They'll unlock their potential, and they will start to think for themselves_.'

"Kurusu Akira..." he utters the name, tastes it on his tongue.

Saying it ignited hate in his stomach. Shido would scoff, tell him human emotions were not becoming of someone with blood of the divine. And what did he have to fear? No human was stronger than Shido Masayoshi.

But a human was stronger than Akechi Goro.

Or he _could_ be.

There's a nudge at the back of his mind, tells him to gain control of his growing anger less he break the rest of his keystones. His first contract was a loyal subject, and Akechi was forever grateful for its dedication. If only it could erase both human and fox from existence...

"It would be an honor to face you, Kurusu," his lips twist into a dark smirk, attention dragging to the snoring Kamoshida on the altar floor. The human essence that once lied within him has all but dwindled. "An honor indeed..."

Kitagawa Yusuke, Akira notes, is many things. An artist, a kitsune, and honorary puppy kicker. Well... not _literally,_ of course, but he may as well have given the way the puppy hurried to its owner with tail crammed between its legs. Akira had offered them an apology from the streetlamp over before following suit.

Still, the way those ears had drooped with Yusuke’s bashful expression had been... dare he say, _cute_.

...Now he was going to have to play a round of Gambla Goemon to reclaim that sliver of masculinity he just lost from _thinking_ such a thing.

The clock on the wall was exactly 2 minutes ahead. Sojiro had been meaning to fix it, but each time he reached for the wooden frame, the bell would chime at the arrival of a new customer. Admittedly, Akira had been meaning to change it as well, but he was a full-time student. That was his excuse.

For whatever reason, Yusuke hadn’t seemed to want to stay too long. But Akira flicks on the stove anyway, heating up the pot of curry from last night. Morgana had leapt out of his bag the instant he unzipped it, storming up the stairs after Yusuke with a meow that would make larger cats jealous.

“There’s spare clothes in the box on the shelf,” he had said the minute they walked in. The laundromat across the street only charged 100 yen, a small amount he didn’t mind sacrificing for washing Yusuke’s school uniform.

He didn’t want to be out too long, figuring they could make way for Ryuji’s house once they had their curry-to-go. Sojiro wouldn’t notice if a few large coffee cups were missing, right?

“... _Mrraw!_ ”

Akira finds himself eyeing the staircase with a frown. ‘ _What on earth’s wrong with him this time?_ ’ he wonders, hearing a chorus of footsteps descending the stairs.

It doesn’t take long to find out _why_.

Heat surges up his face, and it’s _not_ from the now-boiling pot in front of him. Akira only glimpses the pale color of Yusuke’s bare... _everything_ before he uses his right hand as a makeshift shield, trying to focus on the bubbles of curry instead of his friend who seemed unashamed of walking without anything on. And he was going to bleach the memory of Yusuke’s— oh yeah, that was enough; hell, his _own_ was enough. Seeing another man’s was too weird.

“Geez, Yusuke...” he hisses, turning his back on both Yusuke and Morgana as he runs a hand through his hair. “You need something?” he forces out.

“It doesn’t seem any of your outfits work for me.” then he hears Yusuke begin to approach, Morgana letting out a sudden wail (poor thing). “Please stop that.” (“ _Meow!_ ”)

Akira clears his throat, breathes in deeply before exhaling heavily through his nose. “Is there a reason why you’re not wearing anything?”

“I thought I had made myself clear,” Yusuke says, as if it were obvious. “None of your clothing fits—”

“You couldn’t keep your pants on?”

A pause. “Did you want me to?”

Unbelievable. “Just... put on the sweats; they’re sitting on the windowsill. They’ll stretch, so you’ll be fine.” Really, he just wants Yusuke to go upstairs and put on something decent. _Just put on something_! “Night shirt too.”

“Thank you,” Yusuke says. “Is there... something the matter?”

Akira doesn’t respond; he’s glad Morgana can. “ _Mraw, mraw!_ ”

“...Truly?” he muses aloud, and Akira hears him shift, padding towards the stairs. “But isn’t it normal to wear little clothing around someone you trust?”

“ _Mraaaw!_ ”

‘ _Someone you trust..._? _Huh_... ’ he muses, switching off the stove. It’s difficult to push away what just occurred as he serves the curry into two cups. Sojiro had served him curry for breakfast one time too many. Hopefully Yusuke wouldn’t mind; it was free food after all.

The second time he hears Yusuke descending the stairs, Morgana’s voice is absent. He still looks up cautiously before pushing the cup to him. Akira’s clothes don’t seem to fit Yusuke too well. The shirt clings to his body, pants baggy around the leg-area.

“Better,” Akira comments, making way for the door as Yusuke takes a spoonful. “I changed my mind about earlier,” (one of Yusuke’s ear twitches in curiosity) “Let’s meet up with Ryuji and Ann.”

“Very well then,” Yusuke says, Morgana clambering back inside Akira’s bag that he left by the door. By the time Akira turns back to look at him outside, Yusuke’s ears have disappeared. It was probably for the best considering they’d be station hopping... “How much does Ryuji know?”

His shoulders lift in a shrug. The curry tastes lukewarm, having been bitten by the frigid morning air. “He doesn’t know you can transform. But he’s a lot smarter than you give him credit for; he knows you had something to do with Kamoshida.”

“Hm,” Yusuke hums, impressed, but his expression is serious when he meets Akira’s eyes. “I suppose asking you to back out is pointless, yes?”

“You’re not taking on Madarame alone, Yusuke.”

“I’m aware,” they turn the corner, making way towards Yongen’s platforms. “However, he’s dangerous. There are some things about him that you do not know, and it is easier for me to protect one person than three.”

“I won’t need protecting,” and the words are out before he can stop himself. “You said it before, that I can last there longer than most. And...” he hesitates, listens as their voices bounce back to them on the unnaturally empty hallways. “That time when I saw Kamoshida’s demon... Something called out to me.”

 _That_ grasps Yusuke’s attention, hand paused mid-lift. His eyebrows furrow sharply, and he regards Akira with suspicion. “What do you mean by that?”

He sshakes his head. “Don’t know. But it only happened once when Morgana was hurt. It said something about a contract...”

“A contract?” he echoes, and for a second, Akira swears he sees a flicker of familiarity at the word. His free hand is brought to his chin, fingers curling thoughtfully. “No... That’s not possible...”

Akira’s lips part, prepared to ask for a straighter answer when his phone vibrates loudly in his side pocket. Confusion burns inside him the instant he sees the caller’s name: Ryuji. The green Call button blinks back impatiently.

He presses it.

“You’re up early,” Akira says.

“ _I’m surprised you answered_.”

And the blood runs cold in his veins. He clenches his eyes shut, hard, before saying, clearer, “Who is this?”

The voice was _not_ Ryuji’s nor was it Ann’s. It was spiteful, a taunt hooked at the end of each syllable. And he can’t put a face or a name to the voice, but he _knows_ he’s heard it before. Although at that time, it had been a lot angrier, not as eerily calm as it was now.

“ _You have until noon. Come to the spirit world, or they’ll die.”_

“What did you do...?” there’s the burning question (who _are_ you?) sitting patiently, but he isn’t given time to ask when Yusuke takes his phone from him, pressing it to his own ear.

“Who are you?” Yusuke demands, voice unusually calm given the looming threat. But that alone does not last. Akira sees just the moment where Yusuke’s composure crumbles into a concoction of anger and disbelief, notices how his fingers tighten against the body of his phone. “You would resort to such measures...? How despicable.” A pause, Yusuke’s posture stiffens. “Leave them out of this. They are not one of Madarame’s students.”

That voice.

He heard it.

He knows.

( _“Who do you think they’re gonna believe? Me, or some stupid kid who goes around pushing people?”_ )

The noises that clambered under the dark night sky crawl from repressed memories, sing in his head until he wants to physically pull them out by reaching into his very brain.

Two pairs of eyes had looked at him – one angry, one frightened.

He forced himself to swallow against the reek of alcohol that clung to the man who threatened that woman.

His fingers curl towards his palm.

But more importantly, this voice belonged to a person who took no problems in wrecking other people’s lives. And somehow, he too was connected to Madarame. Akira shouldn’t be surprised given Madarame’s reputation. Yet, something seemed off...

“Are you alright?” Yusuke’s fingers around his wrist snap him out of his stupor. He lets go instantly. “I’m sorry.”

Akira shakes his head. “Never mind that,” he says, taking the phone back from Yusuke. “Where are Ryuji and Ann?”

“Follow me,” Yusuke says instead, retreating towards the entrance. “I fear the worst will come if we’re not quick enough. When we return to the spirit world, I’ll explain what I know.” he frowns. “Though I’d appreciate if you did the same.”

He nods, not entirely sure what Yusuke is referring to. But he didn’t care; not when Ryuji and Ann were at risk. “Let’s move.”

Yusuke nods.

This is _not_ his living room.

There’s no couch, no TV, and the floor beneath him is... grass? Nothing like the rough carpeting plastered to every square inch of his house.

And... there is no pain.

In his panic to gauge his surroundings, Ryuji pulled himself up, unaware that his leg did not yell at him for such a sudden action. He tests it, puts weight on it as the physical therapist had offered, and the familiar lances of pain are just… not there. He doesn’t know how else to describe it.

But he takes one step, another, and another, until he breaks out in a run, low-hanging mist swatting at his legs, his feet.

He doesn’t count the measurements – he just runs.

Something inside him bubbles, something happy, and Ryuji barks out a sharp, one-note laugh.

He can move. He can walk. He can _run_.

He’s on top of the world, on cloud nine, sitting on a throne—

—and then he wobbles.

Face first, dirt scraping into his chin, wrists skidded from a weak attempt to stop himself from completely falling face first, kneecaps slapping against the hardened soil and grass.

And then the pain is back.

Not nearly as intense as it would have been.

He feels a sliver of disappointment pricking at him even though the pain itself is very mild compared to what it had been for months.

The slap of the ground against his chin ends up serving as a reminder. A reminder that no, this was not earth – that much _had_ been obvious – and that he did not come here alone.

Thoughts of running and freedom are chased out of him as the pieces slot back into place.

“Ann...” he pushes himself to his feet, gaze landing on the endless waves of grass and bellowing mist. He looks, _really_ looks, at his surroundings. There’s a shrine housing a broken statue of some weird fox-thing, but not another human being in sight.

( _The door bell was loud._

  
_Ann looked at him quizzically as he limped towards the door, leaning on the crutch. It couldn’t have been his mom, could it? And Akira never messaged about coming over..._

  
_He managed to slide the lock just so only for the door to be flung in his face, sending him reeling onto his back, crutch kicking against the air as its flung from his arm. “The hell—?!” he choked out only for something black to be poked in his face, barrel shining threateningly._

  
_“Not a word and no one gets hurt.” the man said darkly, eyes as cold as the ice that froze his blood. “You will cooperate, and you will ask forgiveness before a God.”_

_..._ What?

“ _Ryuji-!!” Ann slipped, and the attention was on her. Her hands flew up to her mouth, cupping over her lips at a last attempt to silence them._

  
_The bullet flew._

  
_Her name burned his throat, hand extended towards her futilely._

_And then he too knew no more._ )

He... That man... He shot her. He shot _Ann_. He shot _him_. His hand flies to his chest, groping for some hole that should be there, but he finds nothing.

Guilt rushes through him. Here he was running like a freaking dumbass while his friend was nowhere to be found...

Would he ever change?

“Ann,” he repeats, half walking, half limping through an endless field. Louder now: “Ann!” If the lack of pain was any indicator, he could run again. He didn’t have to walk or limp to... wherever the hell this was. His gaze sweeps over his surroundings once more, body turning and twisting to fully brand the images of this foreign world into his mind.

A forest with a grand arsenal of trees stares back at him.

It was so obvious – how could he have missed it.

Was she there...?

  
_Where else?_

He grits his teeth, takes a few hustled steps, then breaks into his second run. It’s awkward, and it feels as if he’s placing more weight into one leg than the other, but he’d be damned if he was going to skip through the field like a deer for a second time.

If he was going to run again, he was going to do it to help someone.

The shade of the treetops swallows him, grass fading into a dirt road with twigs and leaves that crunch loudly in his ears as he stampedes against them. The unnatural lighting of the gray sky fades away as he hurries in deeper and deeper. Ryuji feels his heart chatter loudly against his ribs, and he braces himself against a tree, breath heaving in and out of him.

It’s dark, his mind registers. Darker than what it was like in the field.

And something felt off.

His skin prickles with goosebumps, a sudden cold sweeping around him, and he clenches his teeth hard. The bark digs into his fingers. “What the hell is this...?” he mutters to no one in particular. “Where’d he take her?”

Silence bounces back at him.

Ryuji glares deeper into the woods, an endless path of trunks and shrubbery as far as the eye could and couldn’t see. He knows he should be pondering the gun, pondering why the _hell_ they got here, but he could think that over more when he found Ann. If Ann were here, if he knew she was _safe_ he could allow himself to think.

For a while, he wills himself to speedwalk, knowing a run would accomplish more, cover more ground.

There are rows of those lantern statues at Shinto temples – he’s blanking on their name; Shinto was never an interesting subject to him. Nestled in their paper hut is a flame that stands strong against the chill of the air. Curious, he stands next to one, placing his hand over the surface.

Heat does not rise to meet his fingertips.

A fake flame, it would seem, but why did it look so real?

Ryuji follows them, allows the lanterns to wind him down a path further into the belly of the woods. Maybe they’d lead him to Ann, maybe they wouldn’t – if he got an answer, he could figure out the next step.

He swears, that with each step, something flutters out of the corner of his eye. When he turns, he can never see what it is, but he knows something is watching him. Maybe it was the very forest itself, holding its breath as their clueless visitor stumbled around like a blind person. This very forest, not at all welcoming, fills him with an eerie fatigue, a taunt that lures him closer and closer to the realm of sleep despite its unnatural environment.

The heel of his hand scrubs harshly at his eyes. He had to keep moving, keep walking, and it’s the most pressure he’s put on his legs in months and it felt great. But why did it take him and Ann getting shot in the chest to be able to freaking run?

The string of lanterns stretches on and on, an endless line that extends further into some unseeing abyss. By the time he’s counted at least the 23rd, he’ll be damned if he’s going to see one of these in the real world.

“...uji...”

He stops, heart clammering up the walls of his throat. “Huh…?”

“...Ryuji...!”

Ann’s voice takes on an edge of panic. He turns right, he turns left, looks straight ahead before running down the aisle of lanterns. “Ann! Where are you?!”

It’s not unlike that endless staircase in one of his old retro video games, where no matter how far he ran, he was truly getting nowhere. Except this time, it’s much too real, and his own mixture of anxiety claws furiously at his stomach.

He can’t measure the distance he’s run or the time it’s taken him, but it feels like an eternity, a sprint that beats to a stop watch that marches to infinity.

...He never thought he’d hate running before.

Somewhere tucked in the depths of the forest, there’s a finish line. But he has yet ot reach the halfway point, has yet to find Ann. Ryuji’s right eye scrunches as the pain lances up his leg again. He chances a look down, knowing he full well won’t see what’s causing the agony, but its better than looking at damn greenery and bark.

He stumbles again, and again, steadies himself by leaning against one of the lanterns. The fire didn’t hurt him before, and it didn’t hurt him now. Straining his ears, he tries to hear for Ann’s voice (or that _man’s_ ) again...

The silence yells back.

“Dammit...!” the curse explodes from his lips.

And he runs.

And somehow, he grows even more tired the deeper he goes.

Yusuke pushes the idol into his hands the instant they land in the spirit world. Akira does not hesitate, pocketing it away.

His kitsune body is elegant, and it’s typical of Yusuke to have something just as beautiful in a realm of the dead as he does in the world of the living. He’s about the size of a small horse despite his long body, and then he looks to both Akira and Morgana.

“Let’s go,” Yusuke ‘says’.

He nods, takes two steps away to the beckoning forest—

“Where are you going?”

—and he blinks in confusion at Yusuke. To make things even more confusing, Morgana leaps onto Yusuke, gripping the fur between his ears. “Come on, this is quicker!” he urges with a wave of his paw.

Well. This was certainly weird. “Can you carry us?” Akira asks, burying his fingers in the white fur. It’s soft, as fine as spun silk. It is not what he’d expect petting a fox would be like. Then again, Yusuke wasn’t a ‘fox’, was he...?

“Don’t worry,” Yusuke assures, and Akira slings himself over, straddles his spine. “The heavier weight is at my head.”

Morgana bristles. “Hey, back off! I haven’t put on any weight!”

From atop a kitsune, everything seems smaller. Yusuke isn’t too tall, but it’s odd to adjust to having something move under him. He never rode a horse or some other living creature back home in the countryside, but he imagines it’d be something like this. Except less fluffy and less vocal... Plus he wasn’t _friends_ with the horse, so there was that to consider to.

Yusuke doesn’t give any indication before he lunges forward.

Akira braces himself in Yusuke’s fur, steadying Morgana when he wobbles. To call it fast was an understatement. It feels as if _they_ are moving against the wind. The images of trees and the curious kodama fast forward in a film that’s too hard to pull apart from one another. Through blurry lens, he does not spot a single Ikiryo. The forest itself had not been the most welcoming place, but it at least had life. Now, it’s as if it has been abandoned.

“Do you know where to look?” he finds himself asking.

Yusuke makes a noise in the back of his throat. “They were here. Ryuji’s scene is still strong.”

“He may be closer than we think...” Morgana muses aloud. “What about Lady Ann?” Dirt piles against his front paws as Yusuke pulls to a stop. Akira feels the pull of gravity the instant Yusuke sits straighter. “Hey, hey! We’re still here!”

“She was here too, but...” his ears fold, Akira catches a glimpse of sharp fangs between pulled lips. “Someone else is here too. Whoever they are, they’re powerful.”

Morgana pushes away from Akira, climbing back to Yusuke’s head to look at their surroundings. His tiny arms cross over his chest. “You’re not kidding. I can sense it too.”

Curiosity snarls inside him. “What is it?” Akira demands. “Are they in danger?”

Yusuke shakes his head. “Not yet. They will be if we don’t hurry.”

“Look,” and they do, following Morgana’s paw as he points towards the path that forks in the road. Lanterns, many of them, light up the road to the left, while the road to the right is barren, shrubbery darkening the harder Akira peers. Were they being _swallowed_ by some impending darkness? What on earth was going on...? “I’m sensing someone down there. Wait... _three_ people...?”

“Then that’s where we’ll go,” Akira decides, and he swings his legs to the same side, prepared to slide off Yusuke’s body.

Morgana shakes his head, “No. You see the other road? Every time you’ve come here, you’ve never seen anything like that, have you?” and he gestures to the blackness, the inky film that blots out the sunlight that should stream in between the tree tops. “If we all go down the same path, we risk losing them to whatever else is out there.”

“He’s right,” Yusuke agrees, turning his head to survey Akira out of the corner of his eye. “I recognize the presence down the right path. Madarame is trying to protect himself, protect his shrine.”

Akira’s eyebrows knit together. “Shrine?”

“Do you remember the last time we visited with Ann? There was a shrine with a kitsune statue.”

“He’s trying to protect his statue...?” Akira mumbles, practically _feels_ the gears clinking to life inside his head. “Is that what we have to do? Break it?”

“I’ll go,” Yusuke declares. “You and Morgana find Ryuji and Ann.”

Morgana scoffs then, swatting at his ear with a little more force than necessary. “Will you quit trying to play the hero? This is serious, Yusuke. They’re _humans_.”

“I know that,” Yusuke snarls. “But that third prescence is on the same path as Ryuji and Ann. Please do not argue with me and go—”

“So you can be swallowed up by Madarame’s distortion?” Morgana cuts off angrily. “If you get stuck there, you’re screwed. You know as well as I do that we need an anchor before diving into something like that,” and he turns to Akira, glint sparkling in his large, cartoonish eyes. “That’s where this guy comes in, right?”

Yusuke hesitates. “An anchor cannot be a human.”

“Then why else did you bring him here?”

“Do you think he’d listen to me?”

Akira slides off Yusuke’s back. “We’re wasting time,” he says, coming to stand closer to the fork in the road. “How strong is Madarame’s distortion?”

“Pretty bad,” Morgana answers, jumping down from Yusuke’s head. “He seems determined to get rid of you and your friends. If you’re thinking of rescuing Ryuji and Ann _then_ targeting Madarame, forget about it; we’ll end up losing one over the other if we do that.”

One road lit by a line of toro, the other snuffed by darkness.

One path would rescue Ryuji and Ann, the other would save all of them.

But that voice, the one that spoke to him through Ryuji’s phone... It was familiar, and he didn’t want to admit it, but he _knew_ who it was, could recognize the twisted tone of voice, the acid that coated each letter. But _why_... _Why_ did he know Madarame? Why did he know about the spirit world?

Who _was_ he?

“Akira,” he stumbles forward, Yusuke nudging at his back gently with his snout. “What’s wrong?”

If that person had spoken to him directly, Akira had no doubt he would smell the booze off his well tailored clothes or curled from his breath. And why, of all people, was he targeting Ann and Ryuji...? Why did he have any connection to Madarame at all?

But he shakes his head. “Nothing,” and he looks to Morgana. “You’re one of them; Nakanohara called you a ‘bakeneko’. Can you find Ryuji and Ann on your own? You know this place better than I do, you can get them to safety.”

Morgana nods, frowning suspiciously. “I won’t let you down. But are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Yeah,” Akira sighs. “I trust you,” he turns to Yusuke, whose face is unreadable. “I’ll be his anchor.”

“You’re a human,” Yusuke counters.

“A human who’s been here four times without any repercussions,” Akira protests. He can almost _hear_ the seconds ticking in his ears. “What’s making you cautious this time?”

Yusuke says nothing, but the glare stubbornly remains.

He’d have to give Morgana a treat later with how quickly he rushes to Akira’s aid. “He may have an advtange, not being a spirit and all... Alright, then it’s decided,” and he rushes over to the first toro. “I’ll find Ryuji and Lady Ann. We’ll meet you back in the real world.”

“I haven’t agreed—”

And Morgana springs upwards, flips in the air as his body is enveloped by a puff of gray smoke.

Akira blinks.

He’s not staring at some cartoonish cat, but a large feline with the build of a sleek panther, a different colored mist dusting at his paws. As he is now, he stands at Yusuke’s height, quite the upgrade from his tiny body. His tail splits at the end, and Akira is reminded of those malicious looking cat spirits in old folklore. “Whaddya think? Pretty cool, huh?” he says, and Akira notices how his mouth doesn’t move either. Morgana is reminiscent as he appears in the real world, just... extra large size, and talking.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” he admits.

Morgana’s tail flicks. “What _were_ you expecting? A cat bus? Come on, those are only in anime,” he snickers. “Hey, you two be careful out there. I don’t want to have to come back and get you.”

Yusuke growls. “Morgana—”

He turns his back, practically _sliding_ on the mist that carpets beneath them. Akira waits until he’s out of sight before meeting Yusuke’s eyes.

“You two are both incredibly stubborn,” Yusuke says.

Akira shrugs. “Can’t help you there.”

“Hmm...” he presses himself to the forest floor, waits until Akira’s secure on his back before rising back on all fours. The fallen leaves crunch beneath them. “No matter what happens, you stay close to me. Madarame is a formidable foe; even I do not know the extent of his abilities.”

“You’re so selfless,” Akira doesn’t mean for it to come out as sarcastic, but the edges of his words are blunt, sanded down.

“I’m quite serious,” the filtered light of the path practically dyes his white fur an ash gray, black-tipped ears blending into the backdrop of forest around them. “I won’t have you getting hurt because of my own carelessness.”

“And I am too,” Akira says, backpedaling. “Stubborn, but selfless too. You targeted Kamoshida because he was going after students. Most people would turn away if they weren’t forcibly dragged in...”

Like that one time.

Yusuke hums an acknowledgement. “I suppose there is some truth there. But I believe if there is a way to make change, it should be taken.”

“Then what was so different with Madarame?”

The temperature of the forest dips further. “I believe you know the answer to that,” Yusuke says simply. “Madarame has a stronger grip on me than I would like to admit.”

“Because of the stone.”

“Yes,” he nods.

‘ _What is it, really?_ ’ he wants to ask. The words flee his mind the instant his eyes land on a black _wall_ smack in the middle of their path. It pulses with a dark blue aura, insignias flaring to life on its midnight surface, much like the stars that peppered his world’s skies. They’re characters, _kanji_ , but they flicker in and out of existence so quickly he fails to grasp their meanings. Even as Yusuke draws closer, they waver in and out of focus.

His rear crashes against the hard ground as Yusuke shifts back to his human form. Well, partially. The tail and the ears were still a thing... He can’t keep the irritation from rising to his face, as he pushes himself to his feet. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Sorry,” Yusuke says back, and it sounds genuine enough that Akira feels a _smidge_ of guilt. “It’s a habit of mine.”

The wall swallows the trees that had not been fortunate enough to grow away from its clutches. Some are cut in half by the barrier, others consumed entirely save for a few lucky roots. As he stands closer, he can discern what is breathing cold air down this path. It sounds silly to his own mind, but the wall feels _alive_.

His hand is only a hair’s length away from its frozen surface when Yusuke grabs his wrist tightly. “Wait. This isn’t natural.” (‘ _Clearly_.’) “I don’t know what would happen if a human were to touch it.”

Akira lowers his arm as soon as Yusuke releases him. He frowns. “You know what it is?”

“A distortion,” Yusuke responds simply, expression darkening. “Madarame has set up something on the other side, but I’m unable to decipher exactly what it is. I can however sense something dangerous. This wall is not created by a regular spirit.”

“What do you mean?”

“That something helped him create it,” Yusuke nudges him aside gently, looks at him as one hand reaches out to the ‘distortion’. “If you’re to serve as my anchor, then you will stay here. I had not anticipated something such as this.”

“But you don’t know what’s beyond there either,” he protests. “How is it any safer if you go in there?”

Yusuke’s tail swishes in what Akira assumes to be irritation if his expression is anything to go by. “I know how to fight back against him. You need to trust me.”

His fingers curl, gritting against his palm. “You ask that of me all the time, but you can see into the future as well as I can. I said I’d be your anchor, but that didn’t mean I was fine with you walking into the unknown by yourself.”

“This is different.”

“Which is why I’ll go with you,” and he doesn’t know what compels him, but one minute he’s clenching his hand into a fist and the next he’s gripping Yusuke’s. “Learn to share the burden,” he says. “We’re friends, and that means we’re allowed to lean on one another if we have to.”

Yusuke smirks. “Is this your ‘rally speech’? I must say it could use some work.”

He feels his cheeks grow warm. Really? He was on that _now_? “Yusuke,” he continues, slowly. “Trust is mutual. I’ve placed a lot of my trust in you, and all I ask is for you to do the same. Otherwise, I don’t know how much longer I’ll continue to follow your lead.”

That, of course, had been a lie. He would follow Yusuke if it meant keeping him and his other friends safe. Yusuke hadn’t done anything to betray his trust, make him suspect otherwise. But this alone could change that if Akira would allow it.

Akira nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels Yusuke clench his hand back. It’s... nice. A strange form of comfort he’s not too familiar with. He grew up, recoiled from physical touch. His parents rarely graced him with an embrace whether it was out of love or for a congratulatory gesture. He was lucky if he even received a _head pat_. This is different, but it’s not necessarily _bad_ either.

And just as soon as it starts, it ends. “Fine,” he says. “But staying close to me would help alleviate the stress. I’ll be able to find Madarame easier if you’re by my side.”

He smirks. “How flattering.”

Yusuke returns with a smile of his own before turning to the wall, fingers gracing its surface.

The very wall bends beneath his touch, ripples beneath the contact and spreads out like a stone dropped in water. The kanji that lit up in a blue as sharp as its aura blaze to life, shed their color for white transparent ink, and Akira keeps his eyes forward, allows himself to be guided through the portal.

He almost forgets their hands are still joined until he lands flat on his stomach, air knocked out of him as the floor slams against his chest. Light, _natural_ light streaming through the window, pokes at his eyes, and he scrambles to all fours, adjusts his glasses. He blinks. Hard.

This...

This was not the forest.

His fingernails scrape against the tatami mat, and by the shojo is a dresser of fine, polished wood. Slanted against the wall atop that very dresser was a canvas covered by a silk tarp.

“Yusuke?” he stands. Silence filters into his ears as he walks towards the doors. This room... He’s sure he’s never been inside it before, yet it felt more familiar than anything in that blasted forest. The blood hammers against his brain, and he feels his pulse rise, heart rattling in his chest.

As welcoming as it is, as _homely_ as it was, this room was very wrong.

His hand only _touches_ the screen when it flies open loudly. Akira’s breath hitches in astonishment, and he takes a step back when someone barrels into the room.

It’s... a child, his mind pieces together. A boy with dark blue hair, dark eyes... But maybe ‘boy’ was underselling it. As far as Akira knew, children did not have ears growing out of their freaking head or _tails_. And for that matter, this boy looked as if he were in elementary.

The way his bangs fall over his face, the concentration that lines his face... It can only be,

“Yusuke,” Akira stumbles forward, reaches out—

—he nearly chokes on a gasp when his hand phases right through Yusuke’s arm. He’s shorter, Akira realizes. Not by much, but he wasn’t ‘towering’ over him like he used to. Yusuke looks at him— no... _through_ him, and the blank expression sends a chill down his spine. He’s seen Yusuke serious before one time too many. This was different. I’ts not an artistic observation nor does it indicate he’s deep in thought. If he had to give it a name, he’d say it’s Yusuke’s poker face.

Somehow, it didn’t seem right on the face of a child.

But for what reason...?

“You need to have better control,” a voice sounds from behind them. Akira turns, and in the doorway is a young woman with long black hair. She’s stunning, face long but features befitting such a unique visage.

“I’m trying,” Yusuke’s voice is lighter, not as deep as Akira was used to hearing. “But sometimes, it’s difficult.”

It’s a weak excuse; Akira’s been with him long enough to know when Yusuke was lying or searching for something to say. He steps back to let the woman cross the room, place her hands atop Younger Yusuke’s shoulders. “I know,” she says gently.

There’s a comfortable silence that fills the void between them. Had he not been invisible to them, Akira would feel as if he was intruding. In a way, he supposes, he sort of is.

A gentle smile tugs at her lips as she slides her hands to his. “Here, I want to show you something,” and she guides them to the dresser, fingers grasping the cloth.

The painting is a self-portrait. The woman on the canvas is not looking at her viewers but instead at a baby in her arms. Behind her is a tree branch decorated with sakura’s just beginning their spring bloom. Her expression is serene, not quite unlike the one she graced Yusuke with seconds ago. She pulls him closer, leands her head against his shoulder.

“What do you think?”

Yusuke pulls away just slightly to look at her before his eyes dart back to the painting. “It’s amazing... To capture such feelings in paint, to express them so accurately...” he looks at her again. “What is it for?”

She chuckles lightly, the sound of windchimes caught in a gentle breeze. “It’s for us.”

And he nods, slowly. “For us...” he echoes.

He sees her arms tighten around Yusuke. “I can’t seem to give it the right name,” she says quietly. “What do you think?”

Yusuke tilts his head thoughtfully. Carefully, his lips part, forming around a silent name only they can hear. Her smile is like Yusuke’s when he wasn’t sneering at something that annoyed him. The woman in the painting, the baby she carried with a mob of hair the exact shade as Yusuke’s...

‘ _Mother_ ,’ the word flits to his mind.

The scene is brushed from existence, dust particles caught in the tangle of a broom’s hairs, like a careful brushstroke atop a blank canvas. In its place is another room, a studio full of children who look to be in varying grades.

Akira searches, finds Yusuke in the corner with a sketchbook resting against his thighs. He watches everyone, carefully, and Akira notices he’s different. He’s nowhere near the Yusuke in high school, but one around the age of middle school.

He knows better than to approach.

An older man, middle-aged, shuffles towards him, kneeling to his height. “How are you today, Yusuke?” Madarame asks. His hair is dark, unspecked by silver hairs and face cleanshaven for the most part.

He hesitates. “I’m alright.”

“There’s no need to lie to me,” and he sounds so different it’s almost sickening. Akira’s fists tighten. What caused such a change? “Or are you still waiting for your mother?”

Yusuke does not answer.

“I see,” he sighs, kneeling so he can sit by his side. “But you know, she would be disappointed if she knew you were feeling sorry for yourself. She wants you to improve just like the rest of her students.”

“I understand, sensei,” the word is clumsy on Yusuke’s tongue, and Akira can see the way the pencil wavers uncertainly over the top of paper.

Madarame watches carefully. “You know, even a scribble can turn into something magnificent. Artists do not complete a masterpiece in one sitting. I dare say a jumble of scribbles could be considered abstract,” he says. “If you show me what you have by the end of the day, we can visit by the old shrine again. I should have time in between the exhibit.”

Yusuke’s attention lifts, face brightening just so. “Truly?”

“I am a man of my word,” but the smile is gone just as quickly as it comes. “But for your sake, do not get your hopes up. She may... not be there again.”

“Of course,” Yusuke says. “I’ll finish this drawing, and maybe I can do another as well.”

Madarame’s laugh is nothing like the jagged notes of his present-day counterpart. “Don’t overwork yourself!”

Yusuke shares the laugh as well.

And that too fades into oblivion.

For a while, he stares back into an abyss, waiting for the next scene to be illustrated. He looks up, or maybe he’s looking down – it was hard to tell when suspended in nothingness. “Why are you showing me this? What’s going on?” he asks no one in particular.

The darkness is not kind enough to grace him with a response.

But that was to be expected.

Nothingness did not care for anything.

He hears the voices before he sees the images.

And even then, there is no scenery.

In the time he’s spent with Yusuke, he’s become quite familiar with the kitsune. He recognizes Yusuke’s mother, but closer observation reveals claws stretching from her nails. Madarame has his arms folded, and Akira can see the beginnings of gray streaking his hair.

“We can’t move there, Madarame,” she protests, voice a snarl. “They’ll hunt us down, block us off from the shrines.”

“Then you would live in a barren countryside feeding off whatever scrap you can find?”

“Don’t pretend like you care about our species... You only care for your title, for gaining recognition...” her face darkens. “...all from art that never once belonged to you.”

Her head snaps to the side, three angry slash marks branded into her cheek.

(like _Yusuke’s_ )

Madarame’s claws drip with red. “Do not take that tone with me, Kitagawa Nozomi. You would continue to blind your son by spinning tales about a Goddess that does not exist. Inari never once heard our prayers, otherwise we wouldn’t have to move from place to place.”

Nozomi sneers, an ugly one note laugh spilling from her lips. “You will leave Yusuke out of this,” she snaps. “You have already filled his mind with lies, twisted distortions about art and whatever philosophy you live off of.”

Madarame stumbles as she brushes by him roughly. His glare is like daggers that stick into her back. But she walks on, unperturbed.

“Tomorrow, you shall do as you wish. I wanted to believe my husband’s words. I wanted to believe there was some good in nogitsune… In the end, he was wrong too,” she stops, fixes him with a glare that Akira has seen one time too many. “You will no longer be a part of Yusuke’s life or mine. And if you come near my son again, I will put you down like the dog you are.”

“Ungrateful bitch...!” Madarame’s voice cracks against the void. “I take you in out of the goodness of my heart, and this is the payment you give me?”

“Don’t make me laugh,” her voice is firm. “I know the true reason for why you kept us around. You’re no better than the leeches sitting at the bottom of the stream.”

The roar of anger unfurls, Madarame’s body morphs into a large, gray fox as he lunges. Nozomi too changes, fur golden and streaked with red around her eyes. Akira glimpses the clash of their teeth, catches Madarame’s teeth in her throat and Nozomi’s massive back paws raking at his underbelly—

—and the world tilts as he lands on his back.

Adrenaline runs through his veins, and it takes him a while to realize just _where_ he is. The previous rooms had a sense of familiarity, but this one is foreign. In fact, it’s hardly a room at all. A broken roof, rain pelting the stone floor and sliding down the decaying walls, and Yusuke curled in the corner with Madarame standing behind him.

He knows it’s useless, knows that nobody can see him, but it doesn’t stop him from standing in between them, glaring harshly at Madarame. This ‘nogitsune’ could not be trusted if the last thing Akira had glimpsed was his fangs ripping into the sensitive flesh of Yusuke’s mother.

“I’m sorry, Yusuke,” his apology is so plastic Akira wants to bunch it up and throw it back at his face. “Your mother... Inari made her a tenko, to watch over both of us. She wanted to say goodbye, but she didn’t have the chance.”

(“Liar,” Akira hisses. “You’re full of shit...”)

“She wanted us to move to a bigger city...”

(“No. She didn’t.”)

“...to help broaden both of our horizons.”

(“Yusuke!” Akira turns, name clapping against the back of its owner, falling to the ground like a brick.)

“But I will leave the choice to you, if—”

“Did she say anything?”

(“What?” Akira says.)

“What?” Madarame says.

And Yusuke turns, but he avoids his ( _their_ ) eyes. “My mother... before she left. Did she say anything...?”

Akira didn’t know. Madarame did. But Madarame was a liar where Akira was not.

“She said she wanted us to care for one another, asked that we work as a team since we are both non-human.” Madarame lies. “And humans... You know as well as I that they are not to be trusted. They will take advantage of you, they only want you for favors. Believe me when I say that they are trouble, and that your mother would not want you to open up to them either.”

Yusuke shakes his head, clutches it, fingers twisting into blue locks of hair. Akira’s heart clenches at the anguish that shoots across Yusuke’s face. “But she... She wanted me to trust them, to give them a chance. I... I don’t _understand_ , sensei. Something’s not- something does not seem right.”

Akira glimpses the impatience and annoyance in Madarame’s face. He nearly bites his tongue in frustration.

“What did she want me to do? What can I do now that she isn’t here?”

“Well...” and Madarame smiles, fangs like shrapnel that compliment a twisted smirk. “You know I am older than both you and your mother, yes? Bless her generous soul, but for a while, she had allowed me to use the power of her hoshi no tama. And as a kitsune, you have one as well, don’t you?

(“Hoshi... no tama...?”)

“Of course,” Yusuke nods, slowly. “But... what of yours?”

And Madarame presents to him a dull, gray sphere that fit snugly in the palm of his hand. At its center is a fissure, black void poking in between harsh cracks. If Akira hand’t known any better, he would have assumed Madarame slammed it against the ground a few times because it didn’t generate the artistic talent he wanted.

Shock rises to Yusuke’s face. “This is the state of your...?”

“Yes,” Madarame says. “And your mother knew this. She allowed me to borrow hers as well, a terrible yet noble act,” he tucks the ‘hoshi no tama’ back into his sleeves. “You know this as well, Yusuke, that beings like us can only depend on each other. You recall how the students looked at you, as if you were some deformed sculpture in an art museum,” (Yusuke looks down, Akira’s chest tightens in anger.) “So please, for your late mother’s sake as well as your own... Will you help me? In return, I’ll provide the roof over your head, shelter you from any humans that may threaten to harm you.”

He’s reluctant, eyes flitting to the jewel tucked away in Madarame’s grasp. An uncomfortable handful of minutes is trickled over them, cracking loudly against the ground as Madarame’s frown tenses.

“I see then,” he sighs, turning away. “I thought you’d be wiser to not turn down one of your kind, but you have proven me wrong.”

“Wait!” Yusuke snatches at his arm, letting go instantly, as if the fabric itself had singed his fingers. Astoinshment, panic, _fear_ chokes his voice. “Please, that’s not what I mean. I...” his teeth dig into his lower lip, and he reaches slowly into his left pocket. It’s the same type of stone Madarame had, unmarred by scratches and cracks. Pale blue, a hint of silver, and at its center is a tiny flame that burns sharply. “You’re right, sensei. I do not know of any other kitsune, and the risk of finding one is too high. We…” he swallows. “We can support each other, as my mother once did.”

And that very light glints off the brief, twisted smirk that yanks at Madarame’s mouth. “A wise choice, Yusuke. I guarantee you, this is not something you will come to regret.”

The hoshi no tama falls into Madarame’s hands and the scene changes back to the void once more.

‘ _That stone..._ ’ Akira thinks as more color and scenes spill before him. ‘ _It’s the same one he had in the atelier and at Leblanc._ ’ Shibuya stands before him, 109’s building a mess of erect metal and wiring, no panels or neon lights to announce its opening. ‘ _What year is this...? What year were those memories?_ ’

‘ _How long has Yusuke been alive?_ ’

And the last thing he glimpses is a painting of a mother and her child, a clean, diagonal cut from one corner of the canvas to the next.

Akira finds him again, gaze drifting into the sea of people as he waits patiently outside a store. If Akira looked hard enough, he’d realize this mini store would eventually become the corner bookstore on central street. Now, or rather _then_ , it was an office building crammed with desks and waiting chairs.

He stands adjacent to Yusuke, hands only a breath apart.

There are so many questions that fill his mind, coax him to ask something Yusuke will not hear, but he gets cut off by the bell over the door. Madarame looks healthier than he did last. Akira feels that familiar disgust curl in his stomach. He’s become quite familiar with it in the last handful of memories.

Was it possible to hate someone as much as Kamoshida?

(As much as that man back in his hometown...?)

“It seems they’ll be allowing us to setup our own exhibit in Ueno,” Madarame declares, and Yusuke follows behind him obediently, says nothing. “Of course, the building is still young; I’m not sure one could call it a museum just yet. But we have the honor of displaying some of your artwork there.”

They distance themselves from the erratic heartbeat of Shibuya’s central street. Yusuke nods. “I’m grateful for your help, sensei.”

“You are aware that you still owe one piece, correct?”

Akira does not miss how Yusuke’s fist tightens. His jaw is set firmly as he dips his head in a second nod. “Yes.”

“Your last submission was lacking, so I hope this one is better. If you work hard enough, I may let you see it again,” Madarame’s words, to any outsider eye, would have been placating, the implication of a grand reward for tremendous effort. But to Akira, they are a taunt, a threat that dangles the knife over Yusuke’s neck. “I can tell how different your energy has been. It’s quite fascinating to see how helpless one is without it.”

“Sensei,” Yusuke’s voice holds a bit of firmness to it, but the hardness of his stare wavers. “Why did you do that to my— to the hoshi no tama?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do what?”

Yusuke frowns, gesturing vaguely to the bracelet fashioned around Madarame’s wrist. Akira’s ashamed to admit he hadn’t noticed it when they stood outside the store. And how could he? The metal and the sheen of the stone was a beacon against Madarame’s pale skin and dark clothing.

“Does it bother you?” and Madarame holds up his wrist, other hand coming to rest on the stone, as if to pull it free. “I thought it’d be easier to carry. For both of us.”

“But I haven’t touched it,” Yusuke counters, and it’s the first time Akira’s heard him address Madarame with such a tone of voice. “Ever since that day, I have rarely seen it. I do not doubt you are taking the utmost care of it, but I—"

“You what, Yusuke?” Madarame’s words are sharp (Yusuke’s mouth snaps shut). “Are you now having second doubts? The consequences for changing your decision now will not go unpunished.”

Yusuke slams his eyes to the ground, and Akira sees how his eyebrows scrunch together. “I... I don’t need recognition for my art. I just wish to hold—”

“Recognition for _your_ art?” his hand claps down on Yusuke’s shoulder, the fabric of his shirt scrunching as Madarame’s bony fingers curl into his skin. “We made a deal, did we not? The roof over your head, the clothes you wear, the food on your plate... all that in return for your assistance.” _And the stone too_ , Akira’s thoughts finish. “I didn’t expect such ungratefulness from you. And I’m sure Inari hadn’t anticipated it either.”

A concoction of disbelief and horror spills itself across Yusuke’s face. “What would Inari have to do with any of this...?”

“She certainly wouldn’t overlook your mischievous deeds,” Madarame sighs, tightening his grasp around the bracelet. “How many people have you manipulated? The ones that you forced to bend to your will all for your selfish desires?”

“I know what I was doing,” Yusuke protests weakly, grasping at his own chest. He did that when he was distressed, Akira realizes. It’s not something he liked to see; it wasn’t something he liked to see _at all_. “They would’ve suffered had they continued to live with us.”

“Protecting the very species that wiped out our race?” Madarame challenges. “By removing them from the picture, you only put more pressure on yourself,” he turns, takes a step, two steps, away from Yusuke before pausing. “May I ask what’s stopping you from possessing me? Or possessing that investigator who sits outside our shack?”

And a cough expels itself from Yusuke’s mouth. His eyes scrunch closed, posture slumped as both hands grasp at his own chest this time. Akira’s fingers phase through his body yet again; it does little to quell his own panic. Between another cough, and another, Yusuke’s breath saws in and out of him.

The stone around Madarame’s wrist ceases its glowing. His expression is as plain as the hoshi no tama’s crystal surface. “Is there something wrong?”

Yusuke wheezes, braces himself against the adjacent subway wall, sweat slipping down his forehead, curling into the corners of his mouth. “No,” he coughs. “I’m fine.”

“Then stop wasting my time. Let us return home. We’ll discuss this later.”

Akira does not miss the glare Yusuke shoots at the back of Madarame’s head.

“Bastard...” Akira finds himself whispering as this Yusuke dissolves beneath his fingers as well. The tiled floor of the subway softens beneath his feet, the smell of grass surging up his nostrils. Madarame scatters like particles caught in a brush of wind.

There’s white.

So much white that it reminds him of the hospital rooms Ryuji and Shiho had been crammed into for so long.

But this is not the hospital, and for as damaged as Yusuke was, he was _not_ clad in any hospital garb.

This one is real.

Akira doesn’t know _how_ he knows, but it’s different. The very air itself muffles against his ears like headphones as he steps closer, grass crunching beneath his shoes.

Yusuke stands before a fox with fur like spun gold. A shimenawa weaves from one tail to another, and her attention latches on Akira as he approaches. She does not speak to him, he does not speak to her.

And he does not dare touch Yusuke. Not yet. “Yusuke...”

“If I leave now, then he too will die,” he says, back turned. “It is the quickest solution, and I know he has very little room to avoid punishment.”

Akira feels himself frown.

“There is nothing to hide from you anymore. While bits and pieces of my life remain untouched, you ultimately know the truth. You’ve watched after me all this time, haven’t you?”

His stomach drops. ‘ _He... He’s not talking to me?_ ’

The fox- the tenko nods.

“I was foolish to believe he’d hold his end of the bargain,” Yusuke continues. “But though I’ve lived for years and years, my sense of thought was still clouded. To say he was responsible for twisting my judgement is not entirely true. A part of me refused to trust humans as well, despite all you taught me,” he shakes his head. “I have no need for my soul if it means it will end him.”

She does not nod. She only stares.

“I fear I’ve reached my limit, mother,” he exhales shakily. “For my mistakes, for those I may have hurt, I am willing to face judgement if it means it will be over,” and he walks forward. “Allow me to guide Akira and the others to the real world once more, and I will do whatever you wish.”

His teeth pinch the inside of his lip and he swallows past a lump in his throat that hadn’t been there before. Selfless, looking out for his friends _again_ , and there was nothing Akira could do about it.

‘ _No, Yusuke,_ ’ he thinks. ‘ _You’re not a fool. The real fool is me, for not believing I could trust you._ ’ But he did, didn’t he? Or was he just thinking that to feel better about himself?

Out of the two of them, Yusuke truly was the selfless one.

Akira cannot read the tenko’s face. Shouldn’t a mother be overjoyed to see her son? But her face was devoid of emotion, eyes unseeing despite boring into Yusuke, communicating without moving.

This was wrong.

It wasn’t a memory; he’s been in the spirit world enough times to recognize the endless field and abysmal forest.

Yusuke’s back in motion. “I understand.”

Akira’s feet move faster than his thoughts. He surges forward, practically crashes into Yusuke, and the initial surprise at feeling his body beneath his own nearly shocks the words from his mind.

And Yusuke feels it too, stiffening against Akira’s touch.

“Don’t listen to her!” he demands sharply, digging his fingers as hard as he can into Yusuke’s arms, hopes he can _feel_ his nails bite his skin.

His heart practically sings in relief when Yusuke looks at him, astonishment lighting his face. “Akira? How—”

“Do you think your mother would want this?” he snaps. “That she would be okay with you giving away your life for someone like him?”

Nozomi growls low in her throat, claws hooking into the hard dirt, tails spurring to life as she crouches, eyes burning into him.

Akira has no problem ignoring her. “Use your head, Yusuke. I saw what she was like, and you know this isn’t right too – wake up!”

Yusuke does not respond, looking to Nozomi desperately, as if gazing into her anger-twisted eyes would solve the conflict for him.

“You’re not alone anymore,” Akira continues, desperation sloshing in his gut. He doesn’t care, doesn’t think, and grips Yusuke’s face, turns his head fast and hard enough that he sees a twinge of discomfort flicker across his face. “Look at me! Your mother died so that you could live! Giving up the life she fought for is a terrible way to repay her!”

He stumbles back as Yusuke wrenches free and shoves against his chest. “Shut up!” he snaps, voice wavering. “When will you stop pushing yourself on me—”

“—When you stop pushing me away!” he grips his pants to stop himself from lashing out at Yusuke from pure frustration at this uphill battle. He was _not_ Madarame; he would not hit Yusuke.

“What do you know?” Yusuke sneers, but Akira can pick out each and every crack that fractures his expression. “You can never understand what I’ve been through, how long I’ve had to suffer in silence because of this terrible man... That knowing each passing day chipped at my life the longer I was away from my hoshi no tama,” tears, Akira realizes numbly, bead at the corner of Yusuke’s eyes. He does not reach to wipe them away. “that I wanted to die, that the one thing I loved was not enough to anchor me to my miserable life. There came a time where I, too, hated it... hated the very brush I used to escape.” The tears, they trickle down his face, but Yusuke makes no move to wipe at them. “And I found myself wishing to die to not cease the pain, but to see my mother one more time.”

“Yusuke,” his name leaves Akira’s lips in a tight gasp. “She wants to see you too... but not like that. And some day, you will see her again. Just not today, and not by your own hand.”

He shakes his head... shakes his head, shakes his head, hand pulling viciously at his hair, scraping into his scalp. “I am at my limit...!” his other hand scratching down his face, as if to pull each and every tear free from his body. “I... am tired of this, of suffering alone... What are you going to propose, Akira? That I remain silent and endure it until the earth decides to swallow me back up?”

“Stubborn as always...” he mutters, but he too, is tired. “You know what I want you to do. There’s no point in me saying it _because_ you know... that I’m going to tell you the same thing over and over.”

“I’m going to weigh you down... You will tire of me just as quickly.”

And Akira notices where Yusuke doesn’t.

The golden sheen of Nozomi’s coat sheds to something tattered and gray, now familiar to him. He recognizes Yusuke’s hoshi no tama tangled in the fur of Madarame’s single tail.

His shoulder stings as he tackles Yusuke aside, and the fangs clamp dangerously close to his jugular. The ground scrapes against his back as Madarame drags him back and forth, paws crushing against his chest, his arms. Agony tears through him, his scream burns his own throat, and his fingers scrabble desperately into the mess of fur.

Madarame rears back, anger and a sureness that was not there before sparking to life in his eyes before he’s thrown to the side, a yelp knocked out of him.

They’re a tangle of limbs, of snapping jaws and noises that were sure to haunt him well into the next year. Fresh red is quick to spatter across Yusuke’s snow-white pelt as Madarame tears into his shoulder. He yelps, and they tumble over each other again and again. Blood decorates Madarame’s belly, his legs, but Akira knows he has the higher ground, more energy.

He has what Yusuke does not.

In that moment, neither one is human. They fight like wild _dogs_ , relying on tooth and claw to tear and gouge, paint the grass with that sickly sanguine like they would decorate a canvas.

A horrifying chill whips against his swift-beating heart at Yusuke’s screech, animalistic as well as his own, the voice Akira has grown so used to hearing. Yusuke folds in on himself to try and pry away from Madarame’s unrelenting grip.

There’s nothing in sight to grab, but he runs towards them anyway.

And it speaks to him again.

A voice both welcome and unwelcome, the one that lit ignited every fiber of his being.

‘ _Shall we try this again?_ ’ it says. ‘ _Has your resolve grown stronger? The way your friend struggles against a losing battle all to protect you. I sense you are ready to return his favor. Fleeing is not an option._ ’

Akira grits his teeth, pushes against the pain that begins itching up his legs, bleeding from his very heart.

‘ _Your desire to save your friends is unbreakable. Go forth, do not falter, and my power will be yours._ ’

Yusuke falls.

‘ _I am thou, thou art I. Thou art willing to commit all sacrilegious acts, reap what was once yours, even if it means the world will turn its back on you a second time._ ’

He feels it then, something practically _extracting_ from his very soul. Fire burns his vision, sets his surroundings in a temporary blaze, before it pulls from him, the sound of chains ringing in his ears, not unlike the ones he heard during his third visit to this sacred realm.

It screams its name to him, rings in his ears, drowns out each agonized noise Yusuke makes, every ferocious growl and curse that rips from Madarame’s mouth.

...Pillager of twilight...

“Come,” he whips his hand forward, fingers splayed. “Arsene!”

A humanoid creature, red and black, towering over the kitsune, face a mask with a devilish grin etched onto its surface, mimics his movements. The beat of its black wings showers him with a handful of feathers that dissolve into blue flames before they touch the grass.

Energy, dark and red, explode like fireworks beneath Madarame’s body.

The surprise and pain are too short for him to enjoy.

“What...” he manages, pushing himself to all fours. His gaze tears into Akira, the glint of fear blooming with delayed realization. “What are you...?”

Arsene does not hesitate.

A gash rakes down the length of Madarame’s side. He yells. “Demon,” he spits. “You made a contract with—”

“Enough.” Akira says dangerously, and he’s not sure what frightens him more: the lack of empathy in his own voice, or that he knew – that Arsene whispered to him – he could end this as easily as Madarame started it. He has never stood over someone, knowing that they were the ones who groveled at his feet instead of the other way around.

The high of being in control is overpowering...

And he _loves_ it.

“...Akira!” Yusuke’s voice cuts into him. “Wait!”

‘ _Why bother?’_ Arsene chuckles darkly.

And Madarame too laughs, a horrendous noise. “Your soul is unclean,” he sneers at Akira. “Kill me, and Inari will kill you too.”

“What reason does She have to protect you?” Yusuke snaps, coming to stand by Akira, legs trembling. “She knows the significance of the hoshi no tama, that stealing one is an unforgiveable crime...!”

“Isn’t it obvious, Yusuke?” (He makes a noise of surprise as the bleeding ceases, gash ever so slowly stitching itself together.) “Nogitsune were once messengers of Inari as well.”

“You abandoned your Goddess the instant you began feeding off my mother’s soul,” Yusuke snarls, teeth bared.

And Madarame tilts his head back, peal of laughter spilling from his lips as his body shrinks, becoming more _human_ as he discards his kitsune form. Dark splotches stain his yukata, but—

“What is that?” Akira cuts in.

Light tan, smooth... fur, clings to Madarame’s shoulders as he stands, flowing down his back like a cloak. It doesn’t stop there. It’s stitched into the trim of his yukata, encircling the cuff of his sleeves. “A form of protection given to me by someone dear,” he continues nonchalantly. “With it, I too am protected from Inari. You should do the same, boy. Now that you’ve forged a vow with a demon, you are just as much of a target as I.”

Akira says nothing, doesn’t _dare_ say anything. His soul was damned, he knew that well; Arsene did not bother to sweeten the details.

“Wondering where you’ll receive such a generous gift?” he chuckles darkly. And his gaze falls to Yusuke. “Maybe if you asked your friend, he’d help. This is the same fool who gladly offered his soul to me. It wouldn’t surprise me if he wanted to help a _human_.”

Yusuke, kitsune… dedicated to a divine being that he could not see. Madarame, nogitsune... donning a form of protection that shielded them from a Goddesses’ all-seeing eye.

Nogitsune were malicious.

Kitsune were not.

Kitsune protected humans, served Inari.

Nogitsune tormented humans, serving no one.

A nogitsune was not protected by divine entities. So they had to reap their protection elsewhere if they wanted to continue using their powers.

The pieces lock together loudly in his head.

Bile surges up his throat.

“Madarame...” and Yusuke, too, must have made the connection. “...What have you done?”

He laughs. He laughs, he laughs, he laughs...

“ _Answer me_!” Yusuke screams.

His laughter is shards that jam into Akira’s ears. Even as they bubble down, the noise still grinds into his eardrum. “A dead kitsune is still protected by her Goddess...” he says. “But a dead kitsune has no need for her pelt now, does she?”

And Yusuke lunges.

‘ _Not good_...’ Morgana paws at Ryuji’s unmoving face, his body slumped against one of the adjacent trees. Relief does surge through him when he fails to discover any blemishes or injuries on his skin. He tugs Ryuji onto his back best as he can manage. At this point, being able to turn into a cat bus would be more useful than a large cat with no opposable thumbs.

He’s cold to the touch, an invisible timer that counts down seconds to a preventable demise. If he could hurry to the entrance of the forest, he could come back to look for Ann, but...

Morgana is careful that Ryuji doesn’t slip off his back. He mumbles something in his sleep as they pull to a halt at a tangle of branches and vines that block the path, stretching its arms left and right, making it impossible to go around.

If he wasn’t carrying Ryuji, he _could_ jump...

His ears stand as he listens closely to the heartbeat of the forest, searching for a presence that did not belong. He fights back against the mounting dread that bubbled _ages ago_ ; he could no longer feel Yusuke or Akira. But they had one another; Morgana did not. Which means he’d double his efforts to drag both humans back to the real world and return if Akira and Yusuke took too long.

The harsh skin of the branches tug at his pelt, and he does his best to duck away from the ones that sweep towards his back. Something told him Ryuji would not be pleased to find his face all scratched up.

But when he resurfaces, it’s as if he’s staring through an entirely new set of eyes.

Pieces of the forest hang suspended in midair, their hanging like nooses. The ground trembles, and as he looks behind himself, he sees how the other side of the forest remained untouched; there are no floating chunks of earth, bits of the world’s blank sky stitched into the ground or hallowed out in some of the trees.

For once, he’s worried.

Madarame’s distortion was far out of his reach; this was not natural either. It makes his hair stand on end, makes him take cautious steps further and further into the woods. But for all the chaos, he can sense two presences amid the hectic web.

He walks, unmindful of the broken toro that now branch both sides of the path worn by age.

It wastes no time staring back when it breaches his peripheral vision. An altar with a shambled wooden roof lay before him. He should feel the rush of higher beings, of gods and goddesses, but there is none of that. There is only an unnatural silence settles half empty in his stomach.

Then he sees her.

“Lady Ann!” He feels Ryuji slump on his back as he bounds over. Dirt dusts the dark and white fabric of her hoodie, ashen blonde hair spilling onto the stone of the altar floor. Her skin is like ice beneath the pads of his front paws. ‘ _How long have they been here...?_ ’ he wonders.

He’s careful when he digs her teeth into the sleeve of her clothes, makes sure both her and Ryuji don’t slant. The second dead weight presses him harder against the ground, but he takes a few ‘test’ steps, afraid to break off into a run, send them sprawling.

Oh yeah, a bus would have been _much_ better.

Morgana hears it move before it speaks. He watches the human— no. _He_ wasn’t a human even if he looked like one of them. Around Akira’s age, he’s a young man with red eyes and brown hair. And it would make sense if _he_ were the third presence both he and Yusuke had sensed.

But that would make it too easy.

“A bakeneko...?” he says.

Morgana growls, claws unsheathing into the furls of mist at his feet. “Back away, you... Whatever you are!”

Astonishment and offense widen his eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just didn’t expect someone like you to make it past the barrier.”

“So you know what it is then? Did you set it up to keep humans trapped for some nefarious reason?”

His mouth opens to speak, but his words are choked by the shuddering of metal – _chains_ – in the distance. “It’s early,” he says, staring off into the mosaic of sky and earth tangled in one another.

‘ _Was he going to leave them to the Reaper?_ ’

“Listen, you can’t go back the way you came. That barrier is a door that locks on the other side. I won’t ask why you’ve dragged humans into this world, but I can help you get them to safety.”

“And why should I trust you?” Morgana counters. “How do I know you didn’t put them here?”

The chains rattle louder, drowning out the noise of his pulse racing to his brain.

“Just what are you anyway? Your energy is different from theirs, but I know a fake human when I see one.”

“I’m...” he clenches his eyes shut in thinly-veiled frustration. Put in any other situation, Morgana would have been amused. This pretty boy wasn’t as polite as he tried to come off as. But he pulls something from the back pocket of his jeans, tossing it to Morgana. “I’m your ticket out. Consider it a thank you for keeping humans away from this world.”

Morgana frowns, lowers his head to peer at the curved shaped bead tinted a sickly jade color... This was— His own eyes widen, and he recoils sharply. “Where... Where did you get this?”

“Just go,” he says, turning away from the altar the minute Morgana swipes the magatama into his mouth. “And do not bring them back here. They are weakening the connection between our world and theirs.”

His voice is muffled. “Wait! We’re not—” the ground breaks beneath him, and he falls into the sky, feels Ryuji and Ann lift off his back.

Carpet punches his soft underbelly, knocking the jewel from his mouth to bask under the yellowed light of the ceiling light. A groan of discomfort rolls in his throat, and he surveys his surroundings. There’s a couch against the other wall of the room. To the left is a hall that leads to a door where shoes are lined. At the opposite corner from the couch is another hallway. Only then does he realize that this is a living room

(and a kitchen, his mind adds)

and that this is a small complex.

 _“_ Ryuji!” He’s sprawled out on the floor, and Morgana fears the worst. He sprints over as fast as his four tiny paws can carry him. “Are you okay? Answer me!”

He counts the seconds in the agonizing silence.

No...

He failed...

They didn’t make it out in time, they—

“Wha...? Whazzut...” Ryuji yawns, brushes roughly at his eyes with a tired hand. He blinks slowly, sleep still etched into his face when he finally looks at Morgana. “The hell you’d get in here?”

“Way to be grateful! I carted your ass all the way here!” he feels his tail twitch irritably, but it’s impossible to stay angry for long. For as loud as Ryuji could be, he’s never been gladder to hear his voice.

“Geez, annoying as ever,” he reaches to scratch his head, then hesitates. “Actually, last time I tried to pet ya, you scratched the shit outta me. Screw that.” And then the realization dawns on his face much like it pokes at Morgana’s mind. Ryuji turns sharply, wincing from his damaged leg. “Ann-!”

She too wakes up on the floor, bracing one hand on the seat of the couch as she pulls herself up. “Ow...” she groans, looking at them through one eye. “What... just happened?”

“You’re okay!” Morgana meows, and he rushes over.

But something in the carpet forces a yowl of pain from his mouth. He backpedals in blind panic, struggling to inspect the underside of his paw as the burning sensation eats at the padding.

“Hey, what’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know—” and Ann looms over, bending to scoop him into her arms. Carefully, she turns his paws over; Morgana’s gaze follows hers. White specks clog the space between his toes. “What is this?”

“What?” Ryuji calls back. “I can’t see it.”

Morgana’s pulse quickens. He tugs loose from Ann’s fingers and the smell of salt burns his nostrils. Actually...

He frowns, looks closer at Ann. And he’s not sure how he could have missed it back in the spirit world, but he sees it now. Small, colorless particles are sprinkled over her shirt, right above where her heart would be. “Lady Ann.”

She must have been watching him. She blinks, eyebrows slanting in confusion. “What is this...?” and then she gasps harshly, turning to look at Ryuji once more. “He shot us! Remember that man?”

“Shot you?” Morgana echoes.

“It was right here,” she fumbles to point at the salt dotting her chest with Morgana cradled in her arms. “Remember? He shot me and then...”

“Wait, go back: Who shot you?”

Ryuji grips at his own shirt. He can’t see from so far away, but he notices how Ryuji brushes aggressively at the fabric. “Yeah... and then he got me.” He looks to Ann, eyes lined with worry. “Y- _You’re_ okay, right? I mean, I ain’t bleeding or anything, but—”

“No,” she cuts off with a brief shake of her head. “I think it’s _salt_ ,” she smooths her fingers down her clothes. Morgana watches as they fall to the floor swiftly, quite unlike snow that glided on the wind when dark clouds asphyxiated the sky before reaching the ground.

“So he shot us with salt... and that somehow shit us out in another world?”

Ann crouches, allows Morgana to leap back on the ground. “Did you have to phrase it like that?”

“That’s not important,” Ryuji cuts off, and his gaze whips to Morgana. “And how’d he get in here? Did he bring us back?”

There are a few choice words he’d like to throw in Ryuji’s face, but his attention snags on the magatama. He dabs it with a careful paw, lowers his head. It had no scent – how peculiar... And the energy that radiated from it before had—

Ann’s finger shatters it into oblivion. A gasp is pulled from her lips as she recoils in shock. “W-What just—”

“You _broke_ it?!” Morgana cries. The microscopic shards have dissolved into the very air they breathed. A million thoughts race through him, each accompanied by some form of confusion. “B-But how? That was the...” ...Yasakani no Magatama, a jewel forged by the gods themselves before they were gifted to man. It wouldn’t – _shouldn’t_ – have crumbled at the touch of a human. “...a fake...? But then why did it transport us here?”

“Hey, is he alright?” Ryuji’s voice pokes at his jumbled thoughts. “You understand him now, don’t you?”

That person back in the spirit world... He got his hands on such a powerful artifact, or so he _thought_ , and it brought them to Ryuji’s living room.

His head was beginning to hurt.

He needed a second opinion on this.

He needed to talk to Yusuke.

...Except they were a world apart, and he couldn’t just warp back without a keystone.

A world apart, and he didn’t even _know_ if they were okay.

No.

He succeeded in his mission of rescuing Ryuji and Ann; Yusuke and Akira would hold their end as well. He could trust them to do that...

“Something’s wrong, Ryuji...”

“Uh, yeah, he’s ripping up the front door!”

Morgana freezes, claws stilling on the small scratches he’s carved into the bottom left corner of the aged wood. When he hears footsteps, he’s half-expected to be hoisted up by the scruff of his neck. He’s not. And he looks up at Ryuji who leans against his crutch, hand grasping the door knob.

“What’s wrong?” and surely he knows Morgana can’t respond in a tongue that Ryuji understands.

But he gets it, and so does Ann. “What happened to Akira?”

“I don’t know,” Morgana finds himself saying. “But I’m going to the nearest shrine.”

He tears out into the streets, paws sensitive to the baked cement of the sidewalk. Ryuji calls for him, but he doesn’t go back.

Every cut that tears open Madarame’s skin and pulls at his fur is easily stitched together. Akira feels his shared frustration with Arsene growing, and another spell (‘ _Eiha_ ’, it whispers it’s name) erupts in a crescendo of deep red, singes the edge of Madarame’s ratty tail.

He barely flinches, but it is enough to yank his attention off Yusuke. Akira waits, counts the seconds until Madarame leaps—

—Arsene is a flurry of black wings and hasty movement as he knocks him aside with a vicious turbulence that ricochets against the grass, snarling against Akira’s hair and clothing.

Yusuke’s cry chills him as he rushes forward, lodging his teeth in Madarame’s neck before Madarame forces him back with his shoulder. They’re a torrent of fur and wisps of tails, alternating between standing on their hind legs to tear with their front claws to rolling over one another, one scrabbling against the ground in a vicious tango.

Akira feels the new Eiha spell dancing along Arsene’s fingertips, flames as red as rubies licking along his hand. Something mentally tugs at him when he goes to lance the spell into Madarame’s side. He couldn’t risk harming Yusuke more than Madarame already has.

“You ignorant welp!” Madarame growls. “Ungrateful, selfish – just like her to the end! For that, I will enjoy every wound I engrave into your body, watch you grovel and beg for mercy!” he brings his back feet towards his own chest

(Something winks back at Akira in the folds of Madarame’s nine tails.)

and he rips into Yusuke’s belly with his hind claws.

Yusuke’s voice is choked with anguish as he screams, blood running in swift rivulets down his sides. He curls, Madarame’s teeth dive into his shoulder again and again

(Madarame’s – _Yusuke_ ’s hoshi no tama glares back)

“ _Arsene_!’

Three golden arcs bloom at his feet, surging forward along the ground with the speed of light before curving in an upward arc, cutting through the fur of Madarame’s tails like tissue paper. He’s tossed aside effortlessly, fox limbs shrinking, tails disappearing in the blink of an eye. The hoshi no tama’s clap against the solid ground is muffled as it lands on the grass.

Akira only glimpses the shock bursting across Madarame’s face, his hand fumbling at the empty silver bracelet on his wrist, before he sprints forward, rushing for the stone.

Then Madarame too is in motion.

“Unhand that!” he screeches when Akira’s ribs slam into the ground. Their eyes meet once before Madarame’s foot catches under his chin. The taste of copper bursts in his mouth, a scream crashing against the back of his teeth as they clamp harshly on his tongue.

Even as he lands back, head spinning with stars blinking in and out of existence at the backdrop of his clenched eyelids, he doesn’t let go. The hoshi no tama is warm, the edges of a small crack on its surface pricking his thumb as he tightens his grip.

Fingers, gnarly and sticky with Yusuke’s blood, dig themselves into his shirt, smearing the white fabric with ugly streaks.

A half-restrained gasp catches in his throat as Madarame raises him with little effort, those same fingers know digging into his throat. His feet kick at the air, hoping to strike him in the chest, the stomach – _anywhere_. Akira searches for Arsene, yells for his presence in the back of his mind. Madarame’s nails frenzy at the hand that clenches the sphere.

“That belongs to me!” spittle flies from his lips, specks his hand and sleeve. “How dare you take a kitsune’s hoshi no tama!”

And though he’s suspended, he can’t help the laugh that coughs free. It harshly scrapes up his abused windpipe. “It was... never... yours...!”

Madarame is the second person to look at him with such unyielding hatred. “Damn brat!” (the noise it pulls from Akira is contorted with pain.) “If I have to extract it from your dead hands, I will!” His nails grow, just as they did back in the atelier, and he reels back. “You brought this on yourself...” he whispers darkly.

Blood splashes onto his clothes.

Akira crumbles to the floor, knees crashing against hardened dirt and malleable grass. He coughs, inhales quickly, _sharply_ , and it’s as if a very hand is squeezing his heart as he tries to inhale as much air as possible.

Sanguine is pasted to Yusuke’s fingers, crammed beneath his claws, dyed the once fresh white fabric of his sleeve. He presses that same hand to his neck before falling to his knees. He looks up at Madarame, glare stretched itself tightly across his face, fangs a sharp unspoken threat that _dared_ Madarame to attack them a second time.

A large, dark wet splotch blooms across his abdomen, the golden fur that was once sloppily stitched to his yukata sheds in _peals,_ scattering in the wind, hooking to the grass at Madarame’s feet. Its sheen is both beautiful and disgusting, now that Akira knows where it came from.

Madarame coughs wetly, blood dribbling down his chin as he wobbles on trembling feet. “What have you done, Yusuke...?” he rasps.

“Something I should have done from the start,” Yusuke snaps. “I am doing Inari’s bidding by ridding the world of _filth_ like you!”

He chuckles, stepping away from them both, unmindful of the wound gaping wider and wider. “This will not kill me, Yusuke...”

“Then you can face judgement before a Goddess you’ve long abandoned.”

Akira notices dully how the field quivers, mist shuddering in the distance to reveal wooden arches, a tori, and then an altar housing a kitsune made of stone with a shattered face.

He’s seen this before.

Madarame collapses against his statue, streaking the side of the kitsune statue with red. A final, disrespectful painting from a faux artist. “It seems you never change,” he says nonchalantly, as if he _wasn’t_ bleeding on sacred ground. “Blindly following someone you cannot see,” his expression darkens. “Fulfilling those silly wishes pathetic humans scribbled on the ema at Shinto shrines... Kitsune never change, following a path so long as there is food sprinkled in the dirt.”

“What is so wrong in helping people?” Yusuke counters, struggling to his feet. His hand digs presses against his abdomen. Akira notices then how _much_ damage Madarame inflicted on him. His blue hair is knotted from their scuffle, shirt tattered with claw marks, angry gashes gnawed into his neck and shoulders. The paleness of his skin peeks out from the tears in his dark jeans. “Unlike you, I never strayed - my mother and I both. We received favors and did not stop until every last one was returned. We never took without payment.”

“A foolish way to live a life.”

“No, Madarame,” he scowls, stands straighter. “ _You_ are the fool. Life gave you many chances to redeem yourself. Instead, you threw them at Her feet the instant you took away another kitsune’s life. How many have you slayed before our paths crossed?”

Madarame’s smirk is toxic, teeth like shards of glass, eerily similar to Kamoshida’s. “I was looking out for myself. If Inari truly cared for her messengers, why do you think she refused to help you when I took away your mother?” (Yusuke’s flinch does not go unnoticed.) “Or when you offered me your soul like the ignorant pup you were? Or the times those students spat curses behind your back even though _you_ saved them by chasing them away?”

“You cornered him!” Akira snaps around his swollen tongue, struggling to his feet. “You took away his mother, manipulated him, and lived off his soul for ages. Those students may have been ungrateful, but he cared about their safety over his own. Something you could never do.”

He glares at Akira. “Do not speak as if you could understand our species, human. Did you fail to see how quickly you sold your soul to a demon for power? All to stop me?” he scoffs. “In the end, you were as helpless as you were when you started out. This wound was not inflicted by your hand.”

“Our species?” Yusuke echoes viciously. “You are not a kitsune, Madarame. You are a malicious spirit that took pleasure in tormenting others. This human you speak down on is as selfless as most kitsune – maybe even more.”

Madarame’s voice is still wet with blood as he laughs harshly. It is an unpleasant noise. “So you’ll go on to trust a human? You, who was so adamant in his belief that no humans could be trusted?” he pause, waits for an answer. “Could it be that he was your anchor...?”

So Madarame was familiar with that term as well... Why was that unsurprising?

“You truly are pathetic,” he laughs darkly. “and foolish, to put all your trust in a human. But then again, you were the same person who so easily gave away your soul to me.”

Yusuke’s hand braces around his arm the instant Akira stumbles. He does not look at him. “I know it is not misplaced.

“Fine,” Madarame spats gritting his teeth. “Watch as he betrays you as well, then you’ll wish you’d never turned against me. Humans are fickle, selfish beings who lure you in with false promises—”

“You are not human, Madarame,” Yusuke says coolly. “You never were. And I do not intend on carrying this conversation; I have listened to you for long enough.”

“Yusuke?” Akira says softly. And the instant Yusuke looks at him, Akira takes his hand, pushes the hoshi no tama into his palm. He misses its warmth, but through the pain along his body, in his mouth, he manages a smirk. Just a little one. “I believe this is yours.”

Something flickers in Yusuke’s eyes, but ultimately it is relief that surfaces on his face as he grasps it in both of his hands. “Thank you...” he looks at Madarame then, approaches slowly before stopping a good three or so feet away from him. “I will give you two choices: Divine judgement, or be stripped of your powers and return to the world where no one will remember your name.”

Madarame scowls, but Akira sees his expression tremble. “You are not Inari; do not act like her, Yusuke. What makes you think she will believe the words of someone like you over me?”

“I have nothing to hide,” he answers matter-of-factly. “I have never raised my hand against my own kind.”

“And yet you bring humans to a world they do not belong?”

“You have done the same.”

Madarame frowns in confusion this time. “What?”

“I sensed another living being while I was here, but this one was not like the other two. It was not human; it was a being with a malicious aura. Inari can see everything in the realm of the dead. Whatever you brought here was not so different from you and I, correct?”

“No,” and Akira frowns; this is not a façade. “You arrived with three humans and a bakeneko. What reason would I have to bring a human into Yomi?”

 _Yomi_... is that what they were calling it now?

“You said yourself you wanted to purge Akira and Ann from existence,” Yusuke continues, but Akira notices he too is confused. “What better way than to bring them here, where you could easily conceal evidence of a murder?”

“I am telling the truth!” Madarame snaps, and the sudden panic that lights his eyes is uncharacteristic. “You are the few kitsune who have dared bring a human. Are you insinuating that someone else brought them?” and had Madarame not inflicted such injuries on them, Akira would have felt pity for the genuine worry that races across his face. “Something else was here... No... It couldn’t have been...”

Yusuke takes a step forward, patience drawn short. “If there is something you are hiding, then out with it.”

His anger fails to phase Madarame. “I understand there is no way to avoid punishment... So take this as you will,” he starts. “There is someone else who I once suspected could travel to Yomi. If he is able to disguise himself and drag humans...” and he looks to Akira. “...Don’t be surprised if your little friend is next.”

And Yusuke snatches him forward, curling his fingers into the neck of Madarame’s yukata. “If this is your last attempt to threaten him, then I swear I will—”

“When you live as long as me, you meet many people,” Madarame interrupts calmly. “Try to remember our former clients, Yusuke, and ask yourself: Were we truly the only nonhumans at the exhibits?” Yusuke’s fingers slowly untangle from Madarame’s clothes. “You still haven’t figured it out? It seems being around your human friends has shortened your perceptive thinking... Think back to your mother’s painting. Do you remember the man who was inspired by it? The one...?”

Madarame trails off, stares at something only can see. The eyes that were once taunting and cold have cooled to an unsettling blank slate.

Yusuke blinks.

Then Madarame shoves at Yusuke. Akira catches him as he fumbles backwards...

And his blood chills.

Madarame falls to all fours, pupils rolling back towards his skull. He peels at his face, pries at the streams of black liquid that spurt from his eyes, dribble from the corners of his mouth. His cough cracks the air, choking and wheezing as more and more liquid accumulates in the space between his hands, sloshing in clumps and clumps onto the once gray pavement.

He gags, slips and his cheek crashes into the dark puddle of blood... matter... Akira didn’t _know._ He’s practically watching someone choke on their own spit and foam, their limbs spasming, weak nails chipping and breaking against stone, dirt crammed into the cracks where they split.

“W-What’s happening...?” Yusuke stutters.

It’s selfish of him, it’s probably wrong.

But he does not loosen his grip on Yusuke’s arms.

Madarame extends a hand, reaching for them, for someone, for some _thing_ to snap their heel against his neck and end it all.

It doesn’t come.

“W...Why,” another globule stutters free from Madarame’s mouth. His voice is garbled, choked by the liquid that fills his mouth, seeps in through the thin line of his lips. “I...”

His head smacks against the ground, limbs collapsing from under him.

Madarame speaks no more.

\--

His mouth slants ajar, saliva and black ooze pooling down the side of his lips, smearing the paleness of his wrinkled face. And the _eyes_... White marbles, as opalescent and pure as a hoshi no tama, devoid of pupils that now gazed at the back of an empty head. The black tears have stopped, sitting in the hollow of his cheekbones. Red specks the tips of his fingertips, paints the ground from frenzied strokes.

He falls from Akira’s grip, retches, and the vomit stings his mouth as it expels from his lips, slushing the fresh blades of grass. There is not much to gag out on an empty stomach, but he tastes the curry of that morning prickling along his tongue, and it makes him throw up a second time.

A hand falls on his back, steadies him as he levels his breathing between trembling gasps and lips. He sniffs, the angry prick of tears stinging his eyes. “I’m fine,” his voice is raw. He can’t look at the pitiful body that was once his teacher, his guardian, his—

“Was that the work of Inari?”

Yusuke shakes his head. “No. She would never enact such a horrifying torment upon someone...” anxiety packs in his stomach, and he brings a hand to his mouth. “That was not the work of something natural...”

He’s still not used to the hoshi no tama back in his hands, and that does not quell the queasiness. It was _his_ , had been assigned to him the minute he was born, and yet it felt foreign.

Childish it may be, he found himself thinking how unfair it was. It wasn’t fair that he had to endure years without something that was rightfully his, his _soul._ But the surface, even the fire that quivered quietly in its pure casing, had grown a shade darker from the years of being separated from who it belonged to. Yusuke grits his teeth at the feeling of cracks at its bottom. The bracelet had done an admirable job of leaving behind scars.

Akira stands, holds a hand out for him. “Come on,” he says, voice firm. “We need to leave before something happens to us.”

‘ _But nothing’s here_ ,’ he wants to say. And it was true: Not even Ryuji, Ann, or Morgana’s lingering presence could be felt.

For once, he does not find himself concerned for their wellbeing.

The words that fled Madarame’s dying lips rang in his mind, ricocheting off the inside of his skull, drumming against is brain.

Someone was out there, and Madarame was convinced Yusuke knew him too.

He allows himself to be pulled up. His eyes rake over Akira’s body, feeling the strings of guilt plucking with each wound that blossomed like watercolors on his once unblemished skin. The skin below his chin is puffier, having begun to darken from where Madarame delivered his kick. There’s the scrapes cut into his face from being dragged along the ground like a rag doll, the gash from claws in his torso... Akira’s skin is soft and sticky beneath his fingers.

He winces. Yusuke pulls back as if he’s been burned. “I’m sorry,” he finds himself saying. “This is my fault—”

“Don’t start that,” Akira cuts off, but there is no anger in his words. “I chose to go with you, and besides, you look worse than I do.”

The adrenaline from earlier blocked him off from the pain that should have been alive in each vein. Or maybe it was something _else_...

“Besides, it’s not every day I get to fight with a demon.”

Yusuke clenches the hoshi no tama harder, smirk wry. “You truly are the most insane human I’ve ever met.”

“Insane together, right?”

He nods, numb. “Akira... about that being from before,” he starts slowly. “You called it ‘Arsene’, yes?”

“Yeah,” and he too gets that distant look in his eyes. “Do you know what it is?”

“A demon,” Yusuke backpedals. “Well, a demon, but this is the first time I’ve seen one come to the aid of a human. Most prefer to watch from the shadows, drink from the suffering they bring to their contractor...” He frowns, glances back to Madarame. “They wait for humans to search for them – not the other way around.” (Akira remains quiet.) “You may be a human yourself, but there is something special about you. I cannot tell what it is,” he pauses. “Are you okay? Do you feel tired or cold?”

His shoulders lift in a shrug. “Mouth hurts like hell, but can’t complain. Still a little confused though...” and he gestures to the sphere. “We should return to the real world... You _can_ travel with that, right?”

“Of course,” warmth spreads from his palm, up his arm, and he brings it to his face. The blue flame beat strongly, and he can’t help the sigh of relief that parts from his lips. Unfamiliar, but so welcoming...

“What about you?” Yusuke follows Akira’s gaze, confused.

Oh.

He didn’t know.

“Madarame... what a pitiful man,” he mutters instead, sigh heavy. “I worry what awaits us back in the real world. Madarame has quite an audience; his sudden disappearance will not go unnoticed by the public. Will they comb through his atelier? Will the plagiarism ever come to light? There are many things I ponder, but I can think once we are somewhere safe.”

“We’ll face it together,” Akira says. “just like we did now.”

He would like that. “Yes.”

Once more he takes Akira’s hand.

The hoshi no tama shines brightly, consumes _everything_ in its light.

‘ _Farewell, Madarame._ ’

\--

“I knew it...!”

Akira cracks an eye open, dirt crushed beneath his cheek. He shifts and pain shoots through him. His hand flies to his mouth. He’s both surprised and not to discover the swelling has weakened; wounds did not seem to fully carry over from Yomi... or so he thought.

The wind is slammed out of him as Morgana throws himself at Akira’s unsuspecting arms. He doesn’t have time to even _blink_ when Ann and Ryuji reach down as well, Ryuji’s crutch clattering to the ground somewhere in the distance.

Ann’s hands are gentle as she cradles his face. “What happened to you?”

“Was it that guy? The one with the gun?”

“Ryuji!”

Akira shakes his head. “What...?"

“We’ll talk about that later,” Ann quips, and his shoulders tighten as she throws her arms around his shoulders, Morgana squished between their chests (“ _M-Mrawwr!!_ ”). “You’re okay... We knew Morgana was acting weird, pacing around the shrine, but I can’t understand him. I did know he was looking for _you_.”

Ryuji leans back, as if looking at them for the first time. “Look man, I don’t know what the hell happened, but you look a little banged up. We can get you to that clinic Ann was talking about, the one with that punk doctor or something—”

 _Wait_.

Akira pulls away from them both, twisting his body around and hoping to find someone familiar. “Where is he?” at the confused noise they make simultaneously, Akira turns back. “Yusuke. He was with me, he—”

Morgana meows, rushes across the street to the small alley sandwiched between two buildings. He looks at them, tail twitching.

Ann helps him up, grabs Ryuji’s crutch in the other hand. She steadies Ryuji as Akira wanders towards his cat, eyes narrowed. His heart skips two beats.

“Dude…” Ryuji says from behind him. “What the hell- a _fox_?”

Yusuke blinks back through tired eyes. The gash in his shoulder and neck are like red sirens, and then there’s that terrible wound in his stomach. Still, he manages to shoot a weak glare at Ryuji. “ _Kitsune_ ,” he snips, tone dry. “Do speak louder, Ryuji, I believe the rest of Yongen failed to hear you.”

“Wait, that’s—”

“What do we do?” Ann says over him.

Akira presses a hand against the side of Yusuke’s head, fur unnaturally warm against his palm. “Do you still have it?”

“Yes,” he mumbles. “I ask you not to worry. It has been a while since I’ve been in possession of a wellspring of energy. This body is easier to manage while I recover; I feel no need to hide it from you anymore.”

“Shit,” Ryuji says colorfully. “What did that to him?”

Akira rises to his feet. “We need to go somewhere quiet,” he says. “I promise to explain everything then, but can one of you stay here while I think of a way to get him into Leblanc?”

Sojiro would find out. There was no way to avoid it. But Sojiro wouldn’t turn him into the cops for bringing his kitsune into the café.

...Only in his sleep-deprived mind would that sentence ever make sense.

“You’re gonna just...” Ann blinks. “...nurse him back to health?”

“I don’t want to bring him back to the clinic,” Akira sighs, making way for Leblanc. “I’m more worried about how we’re going to get him in without being noticed.” But he’d cross that bridge when he got to it.

As he always did.


	14. Chapter 12.5

Leblanc closes early that afternoon, and Sojiro questions what he’s doing with his life as he starts up the engine of his car, Akira in the passenger seat and giving him directions to some back alley where his friend is unconscious. Normal people would just call an ambulance, let the hospital bills stack up, but he certainly pulled the odd color straw with these kids.

His confusion only thickens when he sees two kids and the cat standing awkwardly by the alley. He recognizes them both (Ryuji, Ann-chan), and he goes to open the door only for Akira to click the lock in place. Limited patience did little to keep his mouth shut.

“What’re you doing?” he demands, eyebrows knitting together.

“It’s... a bit diffeAkirat from last time,” Akira says slowly, and he swallows. “Don’t freak out when you see him.”

Sojiro can’t help rolling his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean? You hit this one with the train?”

“Funny,” Akira leers at him through narrowed eyes. “But it’s more complicated than that,” he hesitates. “it’s why I needed the car too.”

“Right...” he tugs at the lock on the door handle. “My lips are sealed as long as you tell me what the hell you’ve been up to,” he steps onto the street, drawing the attention of both Ryuji and Ann. “I know you haven’t been sleeping at Leblanc. If you’re honest with me, then I’ll let this slide.”

Akira nods, a little too quickly. “I won’t leave a single detail out.”

And Sojiro says nothing other than a quick greeting to Akira’s friends as he follows Akira around the bend of the buildings.

The fox looks up in alarm. Sojiro stares back. Truthfully, it’s beautiful. If it weAkira’t for its severe injuries, Sojiro would’ve thought it’d belong to some branch of endangered species. The white fur, black-tipped ears and paws... and then the tails wrapped in red... something that swiftly draw closer to its body. Foxes did not have eight extra tails.

Did he go a little crazy with the curry recipe last night?

“Will he fit?” Akira says under Sojiro’s blank stare.

“You said a _friend_ , not—” he rubs the back of his neck, exhaling heavily. He was getting too old for this... Damn kid wanting to adopt an unnaturally large fox... “Whatever this is.”

Akira gives the fox a look. “Help me out,” he says, not quite under his breath.

Sojiro’s beginning to think he’s losing it until the fox looks him straight in the eyes. So he understood human commands? That was—

“Do you remember me, boss?” that kid from that night... it is Kitagawa Yusuke’s voice that spurns free. “My apologies, but I could use your assistance, again,” a pause. “Please.”

—completely normal for a fox to speak human language.

Yusuke blinks innocently. “It wouldn’t be for long.”

“That’s,” he clears his throat. “That’s not the issue here. God... what have you kids gotten into this time?”

“Hey, I know just as much as you,” Ryuji mutters.

Yusuke’s ears fold back. “I offered to explain, did I not?”

“Well, _yeah_ , I mean, this isn’t something I’m just gonna freaking forget about. You’re a fox—”

“Kitsune.”

“— _Kits_ \- stop that. And you look like someone tore into you on Christmas morning!’

“Sorry.”

Maybe if he waited a few more minutes, he’d wake up in the living room with some weird ass commercial of a talking fox and a boy blaring on his tv. “Will you both cut it out?” Sojiro says, patience worn down to a sliver. Of course, that is not the case. “Just, help me get him in the car. I’ve got that first aid kit back in Leblanc – we’ll use that.”

“Thank you for helping,” Ann says, smile wide. Well, at least _someone_ remembered manners. The cat meows something as well. “Here, I’ll help,” she moves to help Akira pick up Yusuke, his tails sweeping the ground.

“Hold on, I’ll help,” Sojiro sighs, grasping him under the elbows, Akira hooking his arms under the upper thighs. His fingers press the outline of his ribs. “When was the last time you ate?”

“This morning,” Yusuke responds simply. “But it has been four days since—”

That’s all he needs to hear. “Just take whatever’s leftover in the fridge.”

Akira sputters as Yusuke’s tails thwack his face, skewing his glasses. It would have been cute if it wasn’t Yusuke. Or talking. Instead, it’s just plain bizarre. “Thank you,” he says.

“Don’t mention it.”

Well. Maybe it wasn’t _so_ bad.

\--

The gun does not work with regular bullets. And what need would he have to put bullets into a gun that was not real? He would have no need for it after this. A demigod had limitations too, and conjuring up keystones was one of them.

"Was that necessary?"

Oh. Right. The thorn in his side. "Madarame has lived far too long for this world."

"I meant the students," Akechi hardly spoke back. He hated it when he did. Maybe that's why he was doing it, to get on every last nerve in Shido's body. "You brought humans to our world too. Half or not, a higher up isn't going to overlook this."

 _Half_. What a filthy term. "I ask you to do as I say, not question my every move," he doesn't look at him; it'd be a waste. The Gods had been kind for him to awaken his powers in his adolescence. Being able to get what he wanted albeit slowly was a perfect blessing. But they rarely came without stains. Akechi Goro was a stubborn one that he could never truly wash away, some failed creation from a night with a woman he couldn't remember the name of. The small amount of divine blood that ran through his veins had been thanks to some erroneous strand of DNA...

...and he wanted every last drop.

But he is a patient man, and he could wait a little longer.

"I've left Kamoshida Suguru in Yomi," he finds himself saying. "Make yourself useful and go check on him."

Akechi turns, ever obedient and reluctant—

"Wait." Shido doesn't check the barrel - there was no need for a gun with nonexistent ammunition. He slides it to the edge of the desk that isn't his but should be. "Get rid of this."

He frowns, taking it anyway. "I don't understand."

"You don't _have_ to understand anything," Shido snarls. "Just do the damn job."

His jaw tightens, and for once he wants to hear what Akechi has to say. He was obedient, rarely bit back, but when he did, it was always fun dishing out the punishment.

But Akechi doesn't, and he pulls open the door wordlessly.

What a waste.


	15. Chapter 13

He discards the bloodied bandages into the trash. Hopefully Sojiro didn’t mind he wasted more than a quarter trying to dress Yusuke’s wounds. Bandages did not stick well to fur. “Sorry,” he says quickly as Yusuke pulls back with a noise of discomfort.

Yusuke’s curled on his bed, black paws crossed neatly, tail wrapped in red _shimenawa_ coming to shield his body. “Don’t apologize,” he exhales, back leg coming to brush at the wrapping around his stomach. “It doesn’t hurt as much anymore.”

Akira comes to sit at the edge of the bed. “I meant to ask how that worked,” he places the kit on the windowsill. “When you and Morgana brought me back home the first time, my wounds were gone. There were just... scars.”

An ear twitches. “Yes. Injuries cease to hurt when one travels from earth to yomi. If something from yomi hurts you, however, the pain takes longer to pass. As you know, spirits and demons are tremendously strong. But if a demon binds itself to a human, then he becomes weaker when separated for too long. Which is why you recovered from the attack by the demon Kamoshida.”

“But I thought the demons fed off a human’s soul?”

“They do,” Yusuke says. “But remember: They are lending a human their power as well. That is why Kamoshida was able to avoid suspicion and harm his students for as long as he did. When he cornered you and Morgana, he was at a disadvantage for being detached from his host for so long. Yomi fills us with unnatural energy, but the instant your soul binds with a being from another world, it creates advantages and disadvantages for both the living and the dead.”

“I... see,” Akira pushes at his glasses, sigh heavy.

Yusuke breathes softly, resting his head on his paws. “You took a tremendous risk, accepting that demon’s contract.”

“He would’ve killed us.” Akira counters coolly. “If forging a bond with Arsene has any consequences, I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”

“There is not a doubt in my mind you will... But this anxiety that stirs within me refuses to quell.” Yusuke’s posture stiffens as Morgana approaches, announcing himself with a loud meow. “Hmm... Consider yourself lucky, Akira. At least you don’t have to hear every little thing that comes out of his mouth.”

“ _Meow_.”

“I am most certainly _not_ in your spot. If the idea of sharing the bed repulses you so, lay on the floor until I recover.”

Akira gives him a look, leaning forward to stroke Morgana’s head. He purrs, leaning into Akira’s hand as he paces to and fro. Perhaps he _was_ lucky being unable to decipher Morgana. But with how much he meowed, a part of him was curious as to just _what_ was being said. If Yusuke’s responses were anything to go off, Morgana’s attitude still remained in the real world.

As he withdraws his hand, a thought prods at his mind. His gaze slips from Morgana to Yusuke.

...Hm.

“...What are you doing?”

His fingers bury in Yusuke’s plush fur, traveling from his scalp to the dark tips of his ears. They twitch at the contact, and he realizes how big they are. Then again, Yusuke himself was quite large to be unable to pass as a regular fox.

Akira traces patterns with his fingers, scratching at Yusuke’s ears much like he does with Morgana’s. “You’re very...” (he pauses.) “...fluffy.” he finishes lamely.

Yusuke pushes back, and Akira’s afraid he’s tinkered with the wrong button. Instead, he rests his muzzle on Akira’s lap. He feels Yusuke sigh against the fabric of his jeans.

Akira blinks. “Is this alright?” A content hum serves as his response, so he continues, leaning back as he moves to the other ear. He feels a smile tug at his lips. “I didn’t think you’d enjoy being pet.”

“Well, not many people can get close to a kitsune without repercussions,” Yusuke says... is he purring? (Could foxes even _purr_?) “Though if you touch one of their tails, you’d be granted a thousand-year curse.”

Oh.

He halts, lifting his hand just so. “It’s only your _tails_ though... right?”

A peal of laughter bubbles free from Yusuke’s muzzle, and he nuzzles into his lap. His head bumps against Akira’s stomach playfully before he turns to lock their gazes. It’s strange how Yusuke looks _nothing_ like he does as a human... but his eyes were the same. Deep blue, careful, observant...

He could stare at them forever and find something new each time.

“I believe this is where you humans would say, ‘just kidding’?” his tails thump against the mattress softly.

(Morgana meows irritably as one catches him in the face.)

Akira lets out a one note laugh. “Alright, alright, you got me.”

Downstairs, there’s the sound of Leblanc’s front door swinging loudly, bell screeching in surprise. (“ _Geez,_ Ryuji, I could’ve gotten that for you!” Ann exclaims... “Hey, be careful, this place is old!” Sojiro scolds...). Akira shares a confused glance with Yusuke before making way to the top of the stairs, already missing the warmth of Yusuke’s head. He descends, hearing Morgana meow curiously.

“So... There’s another world, and you can visit it by going to shrines?” Sojiro looks up as Akira approaches. “How’re you doing? Anything else I can get you two?”

Ryuji is standing besides Ann, leaning against his crutch. Adjacent to him on the counter is a white shopping bag. Nope. Not suspicious at all.

Akira shakes his head at Sojiro’s question. “No, he’s alright,” a pause. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he rubs at the back of his neck. “Hey, Akira, you’re sure I’m not asleep, right?”

He opens his mouth to respond only to jump at the sound of Yusuke’s voice from behind him. “I’m from that other world, boss,” he explains, and Akira turns—

For the most part, he’s returned to his human form. Blue hair, matching eyes... But then there was... “Why?” he asks, pointing at Yusuke’s ears.

They flick curiously. “...Hm?”

“They move,” Sojiro deadpans.

“I’m willing to explain all you need to know,” Yusuke says, maneuvering around Akira to sit at the bar, tail tucked carefully around him. “It is the least I can do to repay your kindness. All of you.”

“Yusuke,” Ryuji starts, and all eyes fall to him. He’s uncharacteristically nervous, leaning awkwardly into the crutch. “I don’t know what the hell that was, but when I was there, I was able to run,” (Ann looks away, sympathy lining her eyes as she stares at a spot on the counter.) “I’m back to usin’ this though, so guess it was just a small miracle, huh?” he swallows. “Anyway, can people who get hurt here not feel anything there? And if I stayed there long enough, would it be okay when I returned here?”

And Akira catches it too in Yusuke’s eyes, doesn’t miss the way his gaze lingers on Ryuji’s damaged leg. “Yomi’s air is different as is its energy. It is alive with both spirits and gods. As such, your wound may not have affected you there as it does here. But even there, severe injuries such as yours are only given a temporary respite,” he stares at Ryuji, their gazes meeting. “I’m sorry, but there is no way to fully heal you. There are some injuries that we cannot heal.”

It would have been better for Ryuji to exclaim a curse, maybe slam his fist against the countertop. Seeing the light of hope in his eye snuffed out is somehow much worse. But he nods, smiles, and Akira knows it strains him. “I had a feelin’... Still, it was fun while it lasted.”

“Ryuji...”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. Kamoshida’s locked up, ain’t he? And we got you to thank for that.”

Sojiro scoffs, “Can’t believe a teacher was responsible for all of that... and the school for covering his tracks. It’s—” his phone rings loudly from his pocket. Checking the screen, he walks around the counter. “Guess this’ll have to wait...” they watch quietly as Sojiro stuffs the phone back in his pocket, grabbing the keys he so carelessly left by the cash register amid the rush of previous events. “I’ll flip the sign on the way out for you. Be safe on your way home, you two, alright?”

“We will,” Akira responds. “Thank you.”

He shrugs. “Just And the front door clicks behind him.

“Wonder who’s callin’ him all the time...” Ryuji muses. “He did that the first day I came here, didn’t he?”

“Yeah...” Akira frowns. It’d be a lie if he said he wasn’t curious. But Sojiro provided a roof over his head when nobody else would. It would be wrong to meddle in his personal life. Maybe the person he was always on the phone with was family. Or maybe Sojiro was some double agent like in those spy movies. One was just as likely as the other one.

The sound of the grocery bag crinkles loudly in the café.

“Oh boy,” Ann sighs, burying her face in her hand.

Yusuke’s head tilts slightly. “Something the matter?”

“Just preparing to die from second hand embarrassment,” she mumbles, ignoring the look Ryuji gives her.

“Look, if you thought this was a bad idea, you should’a said something in the first place!” he quips.

Ann rolls her eyes. “I _did_ say it was a bad idea, but you didn’t listen!”

“What is—” Yusuke cuts himself off as Ryuji moves closer, pulling something out of the bag.

“Here,” and then Ryuji slides a perfectly clear, polished bottle of—

“Sake?” the incredulity in Yusuke’s voice is almost tangible. “Have I done something to deserve this...?”

Ryuji blinks. Yusuke blinks back, fox ear twitching in his confusion.

Akira wonders if Ann would be alright with him signing up for a ‘shared funeral’ Death by second-hand embarrassment, leading causality behind ‘death by hippos’. That would make for an amusing headstone engravement.

“Uh yeah, it’s,” Ryuji gestures vaguely, leaning awkwardly against his crutch. Judging from the lines that crease his face, Akira can tell he wasn’t expecting such a reaction. “It’s an offering, or a ‘thank you’, I guess. I don’t know much about gods an’ shit, but ain’t you supposed to give offerings or something to the kitsune? I mean if you don’t like it, I can take it back. Though it was kind of expensive...”

Yusuke on the other hand, is a cross between utterly unimpressed and offended. Akira would have found it funny if not for the unintended racism... or specie-ism...

“...You hate it that much, huh?”

“I’m simply amused by your naiveté,” he sighs, grasping the sake by its neck. “While your heart is in the right place, you only give offerings if you want a favor from those ‘gods and shit’... Furthermore, you are to leave them at altars, not throw them at the first kitsune you see. And if you’re going to offer me something, I’d prefer inari-zushi. It is one of my favorite foods after all.”

Ryuji groans exasperatedly, face red in embarrassment as he reaches for the bottle, “Fine, I’ll just take it back then—”

“I’m not wasting a good bottle of sake,” Yusuke snaps, ears pressing against his skull.

“What the hell, man? You just said you didn’t like it! And besides, you’re too young to be drinking anyway!”

“I believe the bigger question is how you obtained this.”

“I-I... I didn’t steal it, alright! The people here are a lot... more willing to give kids alcohol, I guess...so...” his words trail off, suspended. Akira follows Ryuji’s gaze to the fox ears protruding from Yusuke’s head. Not that he could blame him; it took a while to grow used to them as well.

Yusuke isn’t as quick on the uptake. “What are you ogling at?”

“You sure those are real...?” he side-eyes Akira suspiciously before leaning closer to Yusuke. “I mean, look at them—”

“Cease your childish antics!” he barks, swatting back at Ryuji’s outstretched hand.

“Ow!”

Ann’s chair scrapes back loudly. “Cut it out,” she says, tired. She waits until everyone looks at her before continuing. “We got you some art stuff too, Yusuke; it’s in the bag. Ryuji just wanted to know what a kitsune would look drunk.”

“T-That’s not true—!!”

“Seeing how you’re gonna be locked up for a while and all...” and she breaks off in a yawn, covering her mouth. “Sorry... Guess being in that other world took a lot out of me. And we even have school tomorrow...”

Realization springs back to his mind. He’s upset he almost forgot to ask, _especially_ with Ryuji mentioning his ability to run again. “Wait, Ann,” and she does, blinking in confusion. “You were both dragged into the spirit world. Do you remember how that happened, or who did it?”

“Oh yeah!” Ryuji exclaims. “Some guy came to my house and he just freaking shot us or something, but no wound or anything. Just salt.”

Now it was Akira’s turn to be confused. Or, _more_ confused. “Salt?” he echoes.

Ann chips in, “I remember what it felt like getting hit though. It was as if someone threw this rock at me, and then...” she shifts her weight awkwardly, fiddling with the strap of her bag. “...Honestly, I can’t remember anything. I just woke up back in Ryuji’s living room.”

Ryuji whips around to look at her, as best as he can with a crutch crammed under his arm awkwardly. “Can’t remember?” he repeats, incredulous. “You called for help in the woods.”

“But...” she frowns, more in confusion than irritation. “I was _asleep_ , how could I have done that?”

“Do either of you remember what that man looked like?” Yusuke interjects.

Ryuji shakes his head. “Not... really... I mean, he was wearin’ these shades or somethin’. Talked like one of those religious nuts too, spewing somethin’ ‘bout begging for a God’s forgiveness or some shit...”

Akira’s heart stutters.

“He was dressed pretty formally too,” Ann adds, twirling her hair around her finger as she averted her gaze. “Like a businessman. Sorry, I know that isn’t a lot... But while I was asleep, he appeared in my dreams. He said we had no business being in that world even though _he_ was the one who dragged us in. Then he went on about how we were going to be punished and... well, that’s about it.”

Ann’s words do little to put him at ease; he finds himself wanting to lie down. His nails are digging into his palm, and the pain does little keep him anchored.

(A cut cracked itself down the head of the man who glared up at him angrily. There were no shades, having stumbled from his face and onto the pavement the instant he tripped over his own feet. His hand gripped his face, glaring up at Akira between scrunched fingers.

“ _Damn brat... I’ll sue!”_

...He said nothing despite the words rushing to his mouth. He was trembling, shaking so hard his legs were shaking wildly trying to support him...

“ _I-If you keep this up,”_ the woman stammered, voice struggling to remain firm. _“I’m going to call the cops!”_

...Disbelief surged through him when the woman turned to the cops, spinning a lie that had the man smiling to himself. She hadn’t met Akira’s eyes after that...

“ _Who do you think they’re gonna believe? Someone like me, or a kid who can’t mind his damn business?”_

...The metal of the cuffs were cold against his bare wrists.

“ _You should be grateful. I could drag your name through the mud, make sure you were thrown out no matter where you went..._ ” his lips twisted into a nasty smirk. _“But I’m a patient man. Your punishment will come for you, and when it does, I’ll be there to witness all of it.”_

...Whispers flew into one ear out the other, jeering at his back, raising the man on a pedestal for his merciful decision. (“ _Stupid kid... Pushes him and still gets off free.” “Well, not exactly. He’s still being relocated.” “How ungrateful this generation is.” “If it were me, I would have—”)..._

 _“Do not meddle in other people’s business, Akira.”_ his parents said. “ _I’m so disappointed in you, but it’s not as severe as it could have been... When you return, things are going to change.”_

...They did not bother to watch his train leave. Updates, a monthly call from either him or his caretaker, had been their way of saying, ‘I love you’. And to live the lie that he was there for Shujin’s infamous honors program. He was a criminal bearing a faux persona as an honors student with high grades. An average grade would not be acceptable – he had a title to live up to.

“ _I hope you don’t intend on bringing that cat home,”_ his father said. “ _I’m sure Sojiro will take good care of it when your probation is up. Had your actions not been so severe, maybe we’d have the budget to take care of it.”_

...He woke up to Morgana curled next to his head. Akira’s face was still wet with the tears of the previous night. He made sure to scrape them away the instant Morgana shifted in his sleep...

“You have until noon. Come to the spirit world, or they’ll die.”)

He starts violently as Ryuji slaps him on the shoulder.

“Akira!!” he shouts, too close for comfort. “Dude, what the hell? We’ve been calling you for a minute now,” but he must have realized his voice had came out too harshly, screeching against Akira’s ear drum. “What’s wrong? It’s not like you to just zone out like that.”

Yusuke’s eyes bore into him, narrowed, and Ann’s worry is identical to the one that pulls at Ryuji’s face.

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he lies. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Saying that’s not gonna make me worry any less.”

“Akira, does he sound familiar?” (Ann...)

“No, it’s fine,” Akira mutters, nudging at his glasses. “I’m tired.”

“Dude...” Ryuji gives him a look, some weird cross of sympathetic and disbelief. “If you know this guy, then maybe he can be stopped too. I mean, if he’s sendin’ humans to that world and screaming about some divine bullshit, ain’t that something worth looking into?” he turns on Yusuke. “Am I right?”

Disappointment floods Ryuji’s face when Yusuke shakes his head. “It’s not wise to target someone over a hunch. Furthermore, Akira has his secrets much like we have ours,” he stands from the bar, and Akira still has a difficult time taking him seriously with the fox ears and tail. “I believe we all need rest; we can discuss this more when we’re fully awake.”

And Ann, thankfully, nods in agreement, even if his attention does hook on the reluctance. “Yeah... We should, but we’re definitely talking more about it later,” she tugs at Ryuji’s sleeve. “Come on.”

“But—"

“Ryuji...” she glowers before her face softens. “...please.”

“Everything’s fine,” Akira assures, even though the smile probably looks as fake as it feels. “I promise.”

The words sting his tongue twice as hard when Ryuji finally relents. He’s ready to say something once more – Akira knows by now – but he closes his mouth. “Alright, I believe ya...” the suspicion lining his eyebrows said otherwise. “Just thought there was a chance to help you like you guys did us. But you haven’t changed much since you first came here.”

“How so?” Akira presses cautiously.

His shoulders left in a half-hearted shrug, gaze falling on the sake bottle. Was he tempted to take it back? “I just know you don’t like worryin’ others,” he says, not talking about the sake at all. “Though did you ever think we could find out who that guy was?”

 _I think I have._ “No,” he denies. “It... doesn’t work like that, Ryuji.”

Being in the spotlight has grown far too intimidating. But he cannot shake the face of that man, of the idea of guns that fired salt, and it all sounded like some large convoluted fantasy story and suddenly he can’t meet their eyes

(He had yet to tell them of Arsene, and a part of him wondered if he ever _would_ )

so he retreats upstairs quietly, the call of his name dying on Ryuji’s lips.

Ryuji is unnaturally quiet on the train ride back, having been forced out of the café by Ann when he wanted to follow Akira up the stairs. Space, she had insisted, he needed his space, and as a friend, the least Ryuji could do was accept it. The trains are not so packed that evening, but with Yongen being such an isolated section of Tokyo, it wasn’t much of a surprise.

Her phone vibrates in her purse.

Shiho, the screen reads.

Ann swallows, finger hovering over the power button.

The screen blinks shut.

“Somethin’ goin’ on with you two?”

Irritation crawls inside of her, but she bites it back. It wasn’t Ryuji’s fault Shiho was having to move. But she didn’t exactly take well to people reading over her shoulder either. “She wants me to come over, but...” a wry smile tugging at her lips as she looks at the trembling floor. The train tracks were quite loud in her ears. “I don’t think Shiho’s parents are too fond of me. They probably thought I was a bad influence.”

“Bunch of bullshit...” Ryuji mutters. “It’s not like you were there for her more than _they_ were.”

Though the gratitude from his words swell in her chest, she can’t accept it now. Not with the curious heads that turn at Ryuji’s colorful vocabulary. “Well, they _are_ her guardians,” her breath is shaky as she exhales. “And it’s probably for the better...”

“What...?” his head lurches back in shock. “No it’s not. She’s gonna be in a completely different school with no friends and only her neglectful parents to keep her company.”

“But she’ll be away from Kamoshida,” Ann counters quietly. “He may be locked up, but the school is still suffering because of what he did. I’m sure if she stayed here, the rumors would follower her until graduation. I don’t want that, and neither do you.”

“I _want_ her and you to be safe,” (she shushes him the instant his voice rises.) “’Sides, ain’t it better if she has someone who understands what she had to put up with?”

The announcer’s voice files out of the speakers. “ _Now arriving in Shibuya. The doors to your left will be opening. Please be careful when exiting the train_.”

Ann helps Ryuji stand, following behind him in case he stumbles. He’s not fully used to walking with a crutch, and she fears the smallest misstep could have him skidding his knees and elbows on the pavement. She doesn’t want to see that. “We’re going to stay in contact,” Ann says, more to herself than to Ryuji. “And maybe we could do one of those facetime calls again. You had fun the last time, right?”

“Mmm...” Ryuji hums. “Yeah, I did.”

She takes her eyes off him if only for a handful of seconds to check the time. Shiho’s name is marked as unread. It feels wrong to decline her invitation, but it’d be worse to not show up at all.

But after getting shot in the chest with freaking _rock salt_ , Ann just wants to sleep.

Maybe she’d tell Shiho about this some day when it was all over.

That wouldn’t be long though...

The lump in her throat resurfaces, and she doesn’t trust her voice when Ryuji stops to ask if she’s okay. So she nods, walking alongside him as they navigate Shibuya’s central street, making the right turns at certain buildings to return to his house.

Ryuji understands though. It doesn’t stop him from laying a hand on her shoulder, even if he keeps his eyes front, taking steps with a carefulness only Ryuji would have.

She smiles softly, but says nothing.

There was no need.

Not yet.

“Do you wish to talk about it?”

Akira shrugs, refusing to take his eyes off the easel Sojiro had crammed by the stairs. He had brought it up while Akira was bandaging Yusuke, and with the paints Ryuji and Ann bought, surely it’d keep Yusuke busy for a few days. But Yusuke is unsure if he wants to paint just yet.

The hoshi no tama beats quietly in his pocket.

Well... maybe _one_ painting wouldn’t hurt.

“About what?” Akira finally says.

Yusuke frowns. “Don’t play dumb. You may know much of my past, but I know little of yours. When Ryuji mentioned a man earlier, who came to your mind?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Well. This was rather frustrating. “Then shall we talk about something else?”

Morgana sprawls out on the futon. “Him and I go quite a while back. Kinda like him and Ryuji,” he meows. “We actually met at here in Yongen. I...” he pauses, suddenly embarrassed. “I uh, was looking for a way back to Yomi... trying to find that shrine he keeps visiting, and, well may have gotten lost.”

“I’d rather discuss something else,” he says plainly.

And Morgana bristles. “Ugh, then spit it out already!”

Akira regards them with a curious look. “What’s he saying now?”

Yusuke barely has time to open his mouth when Morgana claws into his thigh. At his offended look, he meows, “Don’t you dare.”

“Have you forgotten the name we were given in Yomi?” _the one_ he _gave us_ _before he died_ , Yusuke asks instead. He does not miss how Akira’s shoulders tighten at the question. “Masayoshi,” he continues. “I am aware that is not a family name, but it is one that Madarame believes I should know.”

Silence drips by; even Morgana keeps quiet.

“He may have been a customer, or even a former student. Though I feel if he were a student, I would have remembered him,” Yusuke wonders aloud, tucking his legs beneath him. “I understand if you do not wish to discuss this man. But if he is the same person I sensed with Ryuji and Ann, then we could still be at risk.”

Akira’s looking at him now, eyes narrowed, but more curious than angry. “What do you mean? Are you saying he was the reason Madarame died that way?”

Black and red, a chaotic combination that slithered past Madarame’s lips and descended from his eyes... Yusuke is unable to suppress the image. “I’m unable to confirm this. I can say that he was the one responsible for sending Ryuji and Ann to Yomi. There are some beings that can live in two worlds without any repercussions. Their methods of bringing a human or a spirit from one dimension to anther vary, but it is not a pleasant method.” he explains.

“Oh!” Morgana springs up, eyes wide. “Hold on, Yusuke. There’s something we need to talk about!” Such shock lining Morgana’s face was unnatural. It was, dare he say, unsettling, and he could not help the way his very _nerves_ seemed to hold their breath. At his silence, Morgana continues, “Ryuji and Ann weren’t together when I found them. I carried Ryuji with me, but we found another path that was blocked. And beyond that... Well, you know how distortions work, but this one had the very world falling apart. I didn’t make it too far, but I found a shrine... and Lady Ann was there.”

The words sink in like a rock in tar. He feels as if his stomach has dropped, and the trepidation climbs higher. Humans frequented shrines quite often in the real world, but for Ann to have been found unconscious at one...

“That’s not the weirdest part. Before I could leave, I found another human. Well... part human, maybe? His energy was not as weak as humans, but his appearance was eerily familiar,” He scratches at his ear with one of his hind legs. “Do you know that guy who’s always appearing on TV? The one they keep calling ‘detective prince’?”

He nods slowly. “Akechi Goro...”

“Yusuke,” Akira cuts in. “What is it?”

“We met him in Ueno,” Yusuke mumbles. “Why would he be in Yomi?”

Morgana shakes his head. “I don’t know, but Yusuke,” and their eyes meet this time. “He had the Yasakani no Magatama.”

“ _What_?”

“Hey!” Akira’s standing over them now, having abandoned his bed. “Akechi was in Yomi?”

“It wasn’t real,” Morgana says. “When he gave it to me, it came back with me to the real world, but the instant Lady Ann touched it, it just... broke.” He pauses. “Is it possible for spirits to carry a copy of something that powerful?”

 _No_ , he thinks. _No it’s not_.

“Where are you going?” Akira’s hand clamps around his wrist. Yusuke blinks. When had he moved from the futon?

“To find Akechi Goro,” he responds. “I owe you an explanation, but—” and the wind rushes out of him as Akira pushes him back into the futon with a surprising amount of stAkiragth. Morgana makes a weird noise of astonishment.

“You’re hurt,” Akira says plainly, removing his hands from his shoulders. “And I don’t know what Morgana is telling you, but we can look for Akechi tomorrow. But you’re not going after him alone.”

Yusuke frowns. “We could all be in danger, Akira.”

“And where are you going to find him at this hour?”

He goes quiet. It is a good argument, and he had very few leads on Akechi... But he was a kitsune, was he not? He had his ways of obtaining what he needed.

“I thought we were finished with secrets.”

“You do not have room to talk,” Yusuke snaps, sitting up to lean closer to his face. “Masayoshi... What significance does that name have to you?”

And the annoyance that lined Akira’s face evens out, replaced with something far vapid and defeated. He moves, taking a seat at the other end of the futon, Morgana between them. Yusuke looks at him, Akira does not. For a brief second, Yusuke feels as if he’s overstepped his bounds.

“Masayoshi Shido...” Akira finally says. “He’s the reason why I’m here. In Tokyo.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The abridged version is, I’m a criminal,” his words are soaked in sarcasm. “but no one at Shujin knows the true reason why I’m in Tokyo. Ryuji and Morgana know, but nobody else – not even Sojiro,” he scoffs. “I don’t think I’d be here as long as I would if he knew the truth.”

Akira. A criminal. There was an odd connection between him and such a title. Something was suspicious, and even if he did not know Akira, did not consider him a friend, it still would have rung oddly in his ears. But the Akira he knew was kind and caring, would go out of his way to step into a world that could eat away at his life had he stayed there too long.

The Akira he knew signed a contract with a demon to step in-between him and Madarame.

This Akira was someone who pealed back his layers bit by bit, uncovering parts of his past Yusuke did not wish for others to see. But he never, not once, judged him. He was someone who returned Yusuke’s very _soul_ to him, taking brutal assaults from Madarame just so he could have the hoshi no tama back.

Seeing Akira in his mind’s eye, Arsene at his back, smile soft as he held the hoshi no tama out to Yusuke...

His body felt oddly warm, and it wasn’t from the fire of the sphere in his pocket.

He had been blind to think Akira had not suffered. “That does not make sense,” he says numbly. “What did Masayoshi Shido do, Akira?”

There’s an unwillingness there, almost tangible in Akira’s body language. The way his lips part, a spark of hope glimmering in his eyes before it is silenced. “It’s...” and Yusuke sees how he swallows. “It’s a long story.”

And Yusuke shakes his head. “I don’t mind.” If there was a way to confront Shido as well, he’d take it. If only to protect Akira in return for everything he’s done.

So Akira begins, telling how it all took place on a dark night returning from school. He speaks of a drunken man harassing a woman, an unfair court case that bestowed him with a double-edge sentence, and a threat from Masayoshi Shido before he left the courtroom. He glosses over his meeting with Morgana, says how Ryuji reached out to him after Akira dismissed Kamoshida’s orders, all leading up to the night they met.

And as each piece of his past fit into the puzzle, Yusuke finds himself growing more and more aggravated.

Humans... Truly selfish creatures.

Akira, Ryuji, and Ann were different; they always had been.

If there were truth in Morgana’s words, then that meant Shido was in Shibuya, perhaps sending hundreds of humans to Yomi for whatever distorted reason. But Yusuke could not grasp his reason for doing so.

Even then, he was given two motives to stop Shido now.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Akira pats him on the head, pushing on his ears. Right. He should probably put those away...

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Yusuke says. “It is yet another unfair act inflicted on innocents – a child no less.”

Akira quirks an eyebrow at him. “You’re not that much older than me.”

“I beg to differ,” he’s been at the center of watching buildings evolve – society as well. That is, when he _wasn’t_ crammed into Madarame’s atelier. “I’ve been on this world for far too long, without my soul in my possession and alone at that. However, in time, my strength will return to me.”

“But things have changed,” Akira muses aloud. “You’re not alone anymore – you know this now.”

“I do,” Yusuke sighs. “But it is not something I am fully used to.” He narrows his eyes at Akira. “You have me as well. You’ve more than earned that right long before we confronted Madrame. Seeing you fight him as well, made me realize you’d put your life on the line for someone you care about. That is an admirable trait, Akira; it is one that I wish more people had.”

A noise is made in the back of Akira’s throat, and he averts his eyes, tugging at the stubborn lock of hair that falls into his eyes.

Morgana rolls his eyes. “Get a room.”

“But... we have one already.”

“Ugh...”

“You should sleep,” Yusuke says, ignoring Morgana’s huffing.

And though Akira moves to the bed, he looks at him. “What about you?”

On instinct, his hand retreats inside his pocket, fingers curling around the coarse _mizuhiki_ knot. He wraps it around his own throat, lets it dangle loosely over his heart. In the yellow light of the attic, Yusuke can see the small blemishes in its pristine surface. His chest tightens, but it is a small loss over a grander victory.

He had Akira to thank for that.

“Allow me to think for a while,” he finds himself saying, tucking one of the sketchpads lying on Akira’s desk under his arm. “I’ll watch over you until then.”

Akira smirks, voice sarcastic. “How sweet, Yusuke.”

“Is it?” Yusuke blinks, receiving a soft clap on the shoulder for an answer.

Morgana grumbles something and Akira flicks off the lights.

He does not keep his eyes on Akira (Morgana looks at him weirdly when he so _glances_ in his direction), but he waits until Akira’s breathing dissolves into something softer, mellower. For the first time in years, Yusuke feels content, a sudden need to protect bubbling in the pit of his stomach. There was no need for Akira to prove himself to Yusuke. Not once had anyone stood between him and Madarame’s assault.

The rage that crumpled Madarame’s face when Akira seized his wrist... the energy of Arsene’s death spell scorching his fur as it sank invisible fangs into Madarame... Akira, suspended in air as Madarame tore into his hand for the hoshi no tama that was not his...

They had each been a noble act, but Yusuke never wanted to see Akira in pain again. If someone were to dare lay their hands on him again, Yusuke’s not sure he’d be able to stop himself from tearing open their throat.

It was a foreign emotion, one he never thought he’d feel towards another. And a _human_ of all things.

The sheer thought of someone’s blood stinging his tongue repulsed him; the image of fangs shredding the sensitive flesh of someone’s neck horrified him.

But it was a lie to say he didn’t like it.

Interesting, he muses. Emotions were truly fascinating.


	16. Chapter 14

With time, his muse slowly returns and his wounds heal. There’s news about a renowned artist failing to show up to his exhibit, and soon, Madarame becomes a thing of the past. In the beginning, Yusuke didn’t know how to take it. He was free from the shackles of the atelier, of his old life. He felt empty, as if he didn’t belong under Sojiro’s café. And while Akira was away, Yusuke found himself retreating to Yomi. Sometimes with Morgana, sometimes without.

Now, he’s almost disappointed for Madarame. Nogitsune lived as long as kitsune; had he not been led astray by his own desires, maybe he would’ve been here longer. All because Madarame allowed some foolish human emotions to toy with his mind.

...but he was no different.

He found himself looking forward to Akira more and more with each passing day. Even though they shared a room, it was different feeling being able to sit alone with him than it was whenever Ryuji or Ann were visiting. Although, it seemed Shujin Academy had better ideas, and most of his evenings had been confined to just him and Morgana.

Which he didn’t _mind,_ per say. Morgana would wander off, searching as far as Shibuya for insight on Akechi, see if there was something that could lure him. For someone to be in possession of a faux sacred treasure meant there was something _divine_ at play.

And Yusuke did not like it.

Truthfully, he’s unsure what to do at this stalemate. Art, for as much as he loved it, served as little distraction. Though he could focus on it before without much distraction, that ability faded over time, worn from Madarame’s strict schedule. This time, it had nothing to do with Madarame but _feelings_. _Emotions_. Distracting little pests that should not affect spirits.

But it had, and it did.

Humans are complex.

There were those who followed the code “an eye for an eye”. They would complete a task out of obligation, knowing full well they would receive a reward in the end. Most humans, he muses bitterly, Are like this. They care not for others but for themselves. If they got their pay in full, they would keep to themselves.

Then there were the humans who fulfilled tasks and requests simply out of the goodness of their heart. They were diamonds in the rough, one in a million, and Yusuke would give anything to see more of them in the world. If people were selfless, there would be less need for a change of heart. If people were caring, there would be less distrust. And if people were like Akira, then maybe he wouldn’t have grown to hate them so much.

Morgana yawns loudly. “What’re you going to do now, Yusuke?”

Silence burns the void between them. The canvas resting on the easel has sprouted new shades of greens and blues, a mosaic that forms an abstract vision of a landscape. He’s seen this place before: the hills that stretched to where the sun met the horizon, could almost taste the unpolluted air, could hear the heartbeat of the wild twisting in and out of his ears...

It’s probably gone now with the seeds of a newborn city having been planted in its chest not long after he visited. Concrete had eaten at the grass, trees and brush mowed down to make room for buildings that _still_ didn’t have enough room next to one another. There was the worry of half empty bottles and cans, wrappers and plastic, that people dropped so carelessly. Soon, their very foundation would return to the soil it was built upon.

If he could, he’d return to this very landscape, accessible only in his fading dreams.

His eyes feel heavy as he swipes a hand down his face. “I’m not sure,” he answers with honesty. “Madarame has kept me his prisoner for so long; it’s hard to remember what I was before he took it.”

The warmth of the hoshi no tama pulsates softly against the skin of his chest. With each shift of the head, he can feel the _mizuhiki_ cord prickle around his neck. Rarely did he take the form of a human when he possessed the hoshi no tama. But in modern day, where reporters would jump the instant his tail would manifest, it was too risky to remain a kitsune. So he’d bear with the itchy, makeshift necklace.

For now.

Unseen from the gaze of humans was the only way to avoid wearing the pearl as some piece of jewelry – which it was not.

“Maybe there are other kitsune at the shrines,” Morgana suggests. “I heard it’s easier for you to stay together than it is apart, and I’m sure your goddess would be sympathetic.”

He fixes Morgana with an amused smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You sound as if you’ve spoken with Her.”

“I’m trying to help,” Morgana sighs. “I notice how you are around Ryuji and Lady Ann; it’s different from when you’re with me and Akira, or Akira and Sojiro. If you can’t adjust to other humans, then living among them won’t be easy. And you can’t exactly turn into a fox whenever you want either like you may have done with... N-Never mind, that was uncalled for.”

“Akira trusts Ryuji and Ann, so I trust them,” he responds simply. “They have been rather supportive to the both of us despite their hardships. I’m indebted to them.”

“Wait...” Morgana leaps down from the window, padding over to the easel with light footfalls. “You _know_ they helped because they see you as a friend, right? They don’t expect anything from you...” A pause. “Is that why you’ve been so quiet? Are you planning on paying them back?”

Yusuke blinks. “Should I not?”

“Well... I don’t know!” if a cat could shrug, he’s sure Morgana would’ve done in that moment. “You should _thank_ them, but you shouldn’t _buy_ anything. Without your help, Kamoshida would still be on the loose – don’t think they would forget that so easily.”

“In other words, helping me break free from Madarame was their way of returning the favor?”

Morgana rolls his eyes. “Not everything’s about favors, Yusuke. Maybe Lady Ann and Ryuji are cut from the same cloth as Akira. You may not see it since you’re... well, _you,_ but I pick up on a lot of things, and I can say for sure that they care for you too. Their happiness, Akira’s, yours... It’s all the same; no one is more important than the other.”

Unsure of what to say, he lets his gaze trail back to the painting. The second coating seems to have dried already.

“...I know that look,” Morgana springs up on his lap, and Yusuke almost shoves him off in retaliation. _Almost_. He’s still not used to the mannerisms of felines. “You’re gonna do it anyway.”

His head dips in a nod, firm and sure. The light sky of the painting stretches on, and he should probably add more shading where it touched the hills. “Our situations are very different. For the longest time, I believed freedom was impossible, but the time I spent here at Leblanc with you and Akira are some of my happiest memories.”

“You didn’t _seem_ happy.”

Yusuke ignores this. “It was painful too,” his fingers run through the fur on Morgana’s head. “I knew that as long as Madarame continued to make an appearance, I would never fully shake him. And although my first meeting with Akira was rather painful, I came to realize that I _do_ owe him. There is not enough yen in the world to repay the stubbornness that kept me safe, the care he has provided.”

There’s a pause, Morgana’s purring ceasing as Yusuke’s finger slows to a halt.

“You say I don’t need to return favors, that everyone considers me their friend,” Yusuke continues. “But Akira is different. You know as well as I do that his kindness can potentially save lives.”

A hum in agreement. “You’re right about that.”

“He has a lot of potential, and I have not helped him in the same manner as I have with Ryuji and Ann. Whatever I use to repay now will be a placeholder until the time comes. He deserves something until then.”

“Geez, you’re starting to sound like an actual human. An overly sappy human.”

His eyebrows knit together in a frown. “What’s wrong with showing gratitude? If I could have my way, I would have repaid him by now.”

“Yeah, but you’re pretty hellbent on this whole thing. It’s just _Akira._..” the words tumble off their track, fall to the floor like bricks as Morgana shifts to look at him. “...For real?”

...Huh? “Huh?”

Morgana drops down from his lap. “You’re smitten, Kitagawa Yusuke.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

 _“I’m_ ridiculous? Are you even listening to yourself? Akira this, Akira that... You sound like a high school girl who won’t shut up because her senpai said ‘hi’ to her in the hallway!” a breath of silence as Morgana shakes his head incredulously. “You actually like him; you’ve come to freaking _like_ him!”

The hoshi no tama seems to grow hotter, and he pulls it out from his shirt. It was just Morgana, after all. “Enough with these accusations. If it puts you at ease, I don’t have the money to purchase anything worthwhile.”

“Hold on, hold on, I’m not saying there’s anything _wrong_ with it... I mean, there _is,_ but it’s because of the whole kitsune-thing, not anything else,” An exaggerated exhale. “You _do_ see where this could end badly though, right? Don’t you guys live for hundreds of years?”

“I’m simply hoping to get him a gift, not propose marriage.”

“Yusuke,” Morgana bats his foot. There’s an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there previously. It’s almost... sad. “I care for Akira too, but you’re going to wind up in a sticky situation it you don’t take it seriously. You have to remember that there are limitations to coexisting among humans.”

He’s not quite sure why Morgana insists on this lecture. As far as he knew, Yusuke was _much_ older than him. He’s seen the multiple faces of people from ancient times, seen how they grew and evolved as each generation walked into the modern era. There had not been a time where he refused to return a favor simply because there was a barrier between him and a human. And he wasn’t going to start now.

Not with Akira.

Not to a man he practically owed his life to. Not to someone who _deserved_ being repaid.

The stool scrapes against the floor softly.

“Where are you going?”

“To see Akira,” Yusuke responds, grabbing his bag laying by the stairs. “There’s something I need to say.”

“You...” Morgana’s next words collapse in a sigh. “I guess there’s no stopping you when you get like this.”

“...Sorry.”

Morgana quips, “No you’re not. Anyway, he’s still at school. How do you plan to get in?”

Yusuke tucks the hoshi no tama away, makes sure the collar of his shirt is enough to hide that scratchy cord. “I have my ways.”

The rain is a beating of the drums against the lull in the lecture.

From the outside window, Akira could see the other classroom building. There’s a rise of bitterness that touches his tongue. Running along the perimeter of the roof is that iron gate. Shujin did little to mediate the problem, to make sure their student Suzui Shiho was okay, but they had enough money to erect a metal wall on the rooftops to prevent another attempt.

It wasn’t for protecting students and keeping them safe.

It was for keeping them in.

Shujin was not as hyped up as they had made it out to be.

Ann turns in her seat. “Hey,” she whispers along with the firm voice of Ushimaru-sensei. It was quite bold of her; no one dared talk during one of his lectures less they wanted chalk in their hair. “Um... Shiho will be leaving soon. I know we’ve been busy with exams and all, and this is _really_ last minute, but... Would it be alright if we went to see her off? Tonight, maybe?”

Oh.

Right.

Shiho was (blocked off thanks to her parents) moving. A good few hours away, but a trip that could not be covered on a single weekend. He can’t recall the last time he’d seen her.

A part of him wondered if it was the same for Ann too.

“Of course,” he says, eyes flitting to Ushimaru who still has his back to the tired students.

And he sees the piece of chalk before it bounces against the side of his head. It hadn’t been hard enough to hurt, but it still surprises him. Ann hadn’t been exempted from chalk-throwing either.

“You’ve got some nerve to ignore my lecture, Kurusu,” Ushimaru-sensei snaps. “The same to you, Takamaki. Pay attention less you want to fail your next exams.”

“Sorry,” Ann mumbles amid the giggling of their neighboring classmates.

In his haze of weakened concentration, the characters on the board blur together, and it looks more like an entirely different language. The more he thinks about it, the more he’s not entirely sure what they had been reviewing.

When Ushimaru’s back is turned, he finds his gaze shifting to the other side of the room. In between the frames of the window adjacent to the door, he can make out the hallway, another section of the roof, a large white fox gazing at him from the other side of the gate- oh.

“Kurusu!” his sensei’s voice is like a whip, and Akira realizes the shock has pushed him to his feet. Everyone’s looking at him – Ann included. “Take your seat!”

Akira chases another look. Yusuke’s nowhere to be seen, but it couldn’t have been his imagination. “I’m sorry,” the words flee his mouth, and the excuse he provides is weak, “I don’t feel well.”

And he’s going to get an earful later, but he gathers up his bag and pushes out the door, blocking out Ushimaru’s yelling of his name. Making sure he’s away from prying eyes, he glimpses out the window. He catches sight of him pacing towards the courtyard. How Yusuke manages to avoid the gazes of other classrooms, Akira’s not sure, but it gives him a place to go.

He’s run through at least two different versions of a lecture in his head by the time he arrives, heart racing and crawling in his throat. Yusuke’s by those two vending machines, pressing at one of the buttons. In his human form. Which simplified things. Barely.

“Yusuke,” Akira deadpans.

His actions cease. “Has your drink ever gotten stuck before?”

“What are you doing? Someone could’ve seen you,” he eyes the machines. “Don’t tell me you came all the way here just for a soda.”

Yusuke ignores him, fishing in the outside pocket of his bag for... something. “Not quite, but I wouldn’t object to one.”

Akira tugs his phone from his pocket. 15 minutes until his class ended. An unread message from... someone. He should probably text Ann and apologize in case he couldn’t visit Shiho with her, and maybe extend that apology to Shiho; it’s been a while since he’s seen her.

“Here,” it’s a _kousa tsutsumi_. The design of the _furoshiki_ is complex, an intricate jumble of patterns that twist around one another, branch off to outline the curves of the box.

He blinks. Once. Twice. “Thank you, but...” his thoughts are all jumbled. “What is it...?”

“I suppose you’d call it an _okaeshi—_ ”

“No, I meant,” Akira takes the offered gift. “What’s it for?”

“Consider it payment for all your help,” at Akira’s confused look, Yusuke continues, “Although our first meeting was less than pleasant, I’m grateful for all you’ve done. What I once found a minor annoyance wound up being one of my favorite things about you. I began to understand the type of person you were the day you came to me about Kamoshida. Your need to help people... it’s a rare quality, and it’s something to be proud of. But it wasn’t until you helped free me from Madarame where it all came together.

“I don’t have anything expensive to give you. Most of my funds went towards the wrapping and a part of the gift, if I’m being honest with you. So please take care not to damage it.” And it’s weird, but in that moment, Yusuke looks _shy_. It’s an unusual emotion to see light up his face; Akira didn’t dislike it in the slightest. “There’s no way I can ever repay you. But know that you’re dear to me; it’s the first time I’ve felt this way for someone. For as long as I’m here, I will watch over and use all my power to protect you. I hope this gift reinforces my words.”

The _okaeshi_ trembles in his grasp, and it takes a while to realize that his whole body is quivering. There’s a warmth that settles in his stomach, soothes his heart, but he can’t shake off an _odd sense of foreboding_.

“I don’t know what to say,” his face feels warm. “You’re important to me as well, Yusuke. You’ve shown me in just a short amount of time that change can happen. I’ve grown up believing we’re to suffer the consequence of every decision. So, thank you... . You’re not like anyone I’ve met before,” the blush has probably spread to his neck at this point, and he can’t help frowning _just_ slightly. “But there wasn’t any reason to give me something for helping you take down Madarame.”

“I beg to differ,” Yusuke says, eyeing the gift. “You can open it, if you’d like.”

“Oh, right...” He takes a seat on the bench, Yusuke sitting next to him. Their legs press together, but it’s not a _bad_ thing. Dare he say, he almost feels comfortable.

Mindful of Yusuke’s request, he’s sure to undo the knots with care. Thankfully they’re not choking one another and it’s easy to untie. The box is slim, bound by _washi_ tape and _mizuhiki_ knots. As Akira lays his hand atop the bow, tugging slightly, the foreboding grows stronger.

 _What the hell’s wrong with me...? It’s just a_ gift.

...Except it’s not.

Bound in a red silk cord, the familiar white of the hoshi no tama clings to the makeshift necklace, resting in the center of the container. The blue _kitsunebi_ within the pearl pulses along with his own palpitating heart. It’s strong, a wild flame that burns harsher than he’s ever seen.

“No,” Akira shuts it from sight, placing it in Yusuke’s lap. “I can’t take this.”

“It’s alright. Receiving a hoshi no tama is very different from stealing one. I assure you no harm will befall—”

He shakes his head, teeth digging into his bottom lip. “That’s not the point. I don’t know everything about kitsune, but I _do_ know about this.”

“Akira...”

“You _just_ got this back. Why would you give it away?”

“I can think of no one else to give it to, but you,” his eyes take on that determination, the one that leaves zero room for argument. “A hoshi no tama is not just a ball and chain for a kitsune. If given away willingly, it acts as a contract. This is something that will bind me to you.”

 _Even though I’m already tied to Arsene?_ Akira’s lips part. “I don’t get you sometimes...”

“You don’t need to, but you do need to understand that I trust you more than anyone else. I know you won’t hurt me; your heart is too pure for such vile acts.”

There’s a sudden pressure behind his eyes that hadn’t been there before. He can’t bring himself to look at Yusuke. Between the rush of emotions, the gift that was more than just a trinket, Yusuke’s words… it’s all overwhelming.

Packed away in memories that had yet to be suppressed, he sees himself at the table, under the scrutinizing eyes of his parents. There’s a nasty mark on his test, red ink announcing to the world each little mistake he made.

His mother had looked at him with disapproving eyes, and she may as well have just slapped him right then and there. His father was quiet, but the disappointment was there.

Wasn’t it always?

_“You’re telling us you would rather spend time... goofing around, instead of studying. Are you serious?”_

“ _How selfish, Akira. See where thinking of yourself gets you? I’m sure it made you feel happy for a few hours, but what about now? Everyone comes first – that is the only way you’ll achieve success in this world._ ”

“ _You don’t need to have dinner tonight. Go to your room. I don’t want to see you right now._ ”

Selfish. He had been labeled with the word each time he placed his studies on the backburner. As time went on, he began to take the academics seriously, but there were moments where he’d catch a glimpse of disappointment in the corner of their eyes – where he’d slip up.

And Yusuke had inadvertently disagreed, called his intentions pure.

Yusuke’s palm slowly drags him back to his senses with its warmth. Akira notices the hoshi no tama is back in his own lap. Quite sneaky of him, a part of him muses.

“Are you okay?” his voice is soft. “I don’t mean to upset you, and if you truly don’t want this, I can hold onto it.”

He shakes his head... Shakes his head, shakes his head. No. No, no, he _did_ want it. Maybe it’s that part of him his parents were _so disgusted_ with that rears its ugly mug, but... Wouldn’t it be selfish to turn it down too?

...He doesn’t know.

“I do,” Akira finally says, and he better not be crying because now is _not_ the time for that. _Pull it together_. “Sorry.”

“Akira. Will you look at me?”

He does. He feels the featherlight touch of Yusuke’s fingers cradling his chin. In that moment, he realizes he could lose himself in his eyes if he wanted to. Tenderness, admiration, and concern... They never held just _one_ emotion – he liked that about Yusuke. He liked it a lot.

Yusuke’s mouth forms around words.

_Do you trust me?_

He feels himself nod.

“Yes.”

And Akira’s eyes slide shut as Yusuke’s lips touch his.

“ _Had that been your first kiss?” Akira would ask as the train approached Shibuya. His voice would carry a teasing lilt, a small smirk on his face._

_Yusuke would shake his head. “No. I have been with others before.”_

_“Huh... I see.”_

_A shame the expression had vanished so soon. But Yusuke couldn’t fathom why._

The buffet is, put bluntly, loud.

He worries about his wallet, having spent most of his leftover expenses on the wrapping, but Shiho’s parents had been nice enough to give her daughter the money to support herself and her friends that night. That just made them one more person he would have to return the favor to... But at Ryuji’s muttering (followed by a nice elbow to the ribs via Ann), he found himself pondering if a small souvenir would suffice.

Controlling parents... separating someone from others... He knew it all too well.

They luck out with the seats in the center of the room, a grand table with a pure white cloth to contrast the red of the couch and adjacent chairs. Yusuke takes one look at the deep rich coloring of the furniture and is reminded of Arsene’s powers, the color of his body, and realizes they go well with Akira’s aesthetic.

Akira listens intently to Ryuji, who’s talking about something that Yusuke doesn’t quite hear. He wonders if it’s about the physical therapy. Ryuji’s limp is permanent, but he’s nowhere near struggling as he was in the beginning.

A part of him wonders if Yomi _did_ heal his leg. Even a little.

“We gotta get seconds!” Ann’s voice cracks his train of thought and she shoots up in her seat. “Come on, Shiho!”

“Hey, me too!” Ryuji calls.

“Just tell me what you want and I’ll get it.”

“Hey, I can walk, you know!”

Social gatherings were... not his forte, yet he finds himself appreciating their company. As much as he cared for Akira, the others had found a special place in his heart as well.

“Yusuke,” Akira calls. “Do you want anything?”

“Of course,” and he follows him, empty plate in hand. He hadn’t intended on eating _too_ much, knowing full well he wouldn’t be able to cover the expenses for more than a while.

The room itself, he admits, has a nice balance of color. Reds and whites, the occasional pinks flashing as the banners turn in the lights... they created an energetic unity for its high-class party goers. Truly the person who was responsible for setting up the room had the eye of an artist.

There were, however, the words passed in hushed voices from one adult to another. At times, his heightened hearing was more of a curse than a blessing. It’s not the first time he’s found himself on the other end. At this point, he believed he’d be used to it. But apparently not.

He frowns, appetite nearly satiated from being fed unwanted words. “They’re quite loud.”

“Don’t let them get to you,” Akira says, keeping his eyes on one of the tables lined with meat and fish dishes. “It’s always like this.”

“An unfortunate truth...” he mutters. His eyes slide to the deserts table, lined with three chocolate fountains, trays of cakes and pastries that Ann gladly piles her and Shiho’s plate with. But... Hmm... “Excuse me a moment, Akira.” He doesn’t wait for a response, swerving around everyone and trying his utmost to block out the disapproving voices.

There are two fountains flowing with milk chocolate, one with white. And their placement was terrible. Former words retracted; clearly someone with an artistic eye would not put two of the same color in a row. He nudges at the base of the fountains, set on rotating them.

“ _Yusuke_!” Ann tugs at his forearm. “Don’t do that,” she hisses, and Shiho smiles sympathetically at him. “We’ll get kicked out if you start messing with everyone else’s food.”

His eyebrows knit together. “But it’s not. I’m simply moving them for aesthetic pleasure. Look at these fountains: Don’t you agree they should be rearranged in a pattern?”

“Can you keep that aesthetic pleasure for another time?” Ann mutters.

Shiho hums thoughtfully, bringing a hand to her chin in thought. “He may have a point, Ann.”

She gaps. “Don’t encourage him, Shiho!” but a smile blooms at Shiho’s laugh. It’s almost contagious, Yusuke thinks, watching them in amusement. He wonders if he would see that same smile again once Shiho moved.

“Excuse me?” Yusuke hears his footsteps before his voice. But he turns anyway.

Astonishment surges through him.

Akechi Goro is as polished as always, wearing a smile that is befitting of the persona he becomes for the crowd. Yusuke begins to ponder if someone of his caliber wears dress _other_ than little detective suits. As spiteful as he means it, the attire is fitting.

Shiho blinks. “Is that... Akechi Goro?” she wonders aloud.

“People like him probably come here to eat all the time,” Ann says, looking to Yusuke. “You two know each other?”

He nods.

“I see you know me,” Akechi says pleasantly, but then he tilts his head just slight, frown just as small. “Have we met before?”

“We would’ve remembered meeting you,” Ann responds while Shiho watches quietly. “Unless you’ve visited Rafflesia? I work there for a part time job.”

Yusuke catches a flicker of knowing in Akechi’s eyes before it fades just as quickly as it came. “Well, I do often buy flowers to keep the apartment lively,” he chuckles. “But I would have remembered someone like you.” and then his attention switches back to Yusuke. “We’ve met before at Ueno, yes? I’m glad I had the chance of running into you a second time.”

“What do you want?” Yusuke asks bluntly.

“Somewhere private may be better,” he says. “If that is alright with your friends here. I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

“You are,” Yusuke frowns, but his mind flashes back to Morgana, how he would flee Leblanc during the day to stroll around Shibuya. “But I have been meaning to speak to you as well.”

Akechi looks alarmed, genuinely shocked, and it’s odd to see such emotion on his face. “What a coincidence. In that case, is now a good time?”

“Yusuke...?” Ann stares pointedly at them, but she doesn’t protest when he holds out his plate for her.

“I’ll return shortly,” he responds before following Akechi. He leads them to the grand doors of the entrance. It proves difficult to find a secluded area, but they take respite in a corner by the elevator doors. The talk of the people is easier on his ears. Perhaps Akechi knew, if he was in the spirit world.

“I believe I ran into some of your friends the other day,” Akechi says. “And I think you know where.”

It may be from his thin patience, but Yusuke almost feels as if he’s being taunted. “Enough with the pleasantries,” he says, frowning. “I’ve been told about you, how you possessed a copy of the Yasakani no Magatama. Would you care to tell me how you came across such an artifact? Or how you managed to make an exact replica?”

Akechi nods, whether he’s agreeing with Yusuke or rushing him to finish, he’s not sure. “Straight to the point... Admirable, Kitagawa. But I always got that impression from you when we first met and had our discussion about the mental shut downs,” Akechi continues. “I admit: That was me your bakeneko friend ran into. As for the Yasakani no Magatama...”

Yusuke’s hand flies up to catch the object he throws to him. The magatama is a rich, onix color – nothing like the Yasakani.

“Consider them my keystones much like what kitsune idols are for your kind.”

His fingers curl around the stone, feeling the tip break at the slightest pressure. “You knew?”

“Well, I am a psychic after all,” Akechi smiles. It’s as fake as Madarame’s paintings. “The truth is, I’m not entirely human either, but you probably figured this out yourself. Let’s just say I have an all-seeing eye.”

“An all-seeing eye...?” he echoes.

“Let’s make a deal then: I am familiar with the man who dragged Takamaki-san and Sakamoto-kun into Yomi. He is more powerful than I am, able to forcibly pull people from one dimension to another. The rock salt he used on your friends? Imagine if he used that on you or your cat friend.”

Yusuke’s face twists into a glare, and he can feel the hair on the back of his neck rising. He feels the familiar poke of fangs against his lip. “Is that a threat?” he scowls quietly.

“It is what you make it out to be,” Akechi holds out his hand for him to take. “So, I give you more information on the man named Shido Masayoshi, and in return, you assist me in overthrowing him.”

“Why do you wish to get rid of him?” Yusuke asks, suspicion crawling into his words.

“All part of the deal, Kitagawa-kun,” he says, a smidge of patience sliding out of its spot. Begrudgingly, Yusuke takes his hand, giving a firm shake. “Perfect. I promise you won’t regret this, and I don’t doubt you will forget to hold your end as well.”

He wants to take the deal back. But a kitsune didn’t take answers and leave stones unturned. He’d take what Akechi would give him.

For Akira’s sake if nothing else.

A handful of minutes pass and Akira begins to scan the crowds from his seat.

“What’s up?” Ryuji asks. “You’ve been doin’ that for a while now.”

“Did anyone see Yusuke?” he answers with a question. Maybe he left to avoid the noises of the surrounding people. It would’ve been nice to go with him; crowds weren’t his favorite either, but it was Shiho’s last night too. The least he could do was be supportive of her and Ann.

Ann follows his gaze as well. “He’s still not back yet?”

“We ran into Akechi Goro by one of the tables,” Shiho explains, staring at her hands folded in her lap.. “He seemed to want to speak with Kita— I mean, Yusuke-kun.”

Ryuji leans forward in his seat. “You alright, Suzui?”

Surprisingly, her shoulders lift in a shrug. “I don’t know. He said Ann and I looked familiar...” she looks up at them, fists tightening in her lap. “Akechi Goro was the detective prince, right? Which means he works on cases. So... could it have been he recognized us through...”

... _Akechi Goro_? Akira’s attention hooks on the name.

“No,” Ann cuts in sharply, voice hard. “There’s no way. And if he did, then he needs to be more professional about it. He can’t go around saying stupid stuff that can upset one of that asshole’s victims.”

She does not seem convinced. “I guess you’re right...”

“You think he recognized you guys through Kamoshida?” and Akira notices how Ryuji’s fingers tighten around the arm of the chair.

Shiho curls in on herself, gripping her forearms. Her head shakes as she nods.

“Ryuji!” Ann snaps.

He flinches, realizes what type of land mine he’s stepped on. “Sorry, I shouldn’t throw his name around like that.” Ryuji mumbles. “Dammit... it still all pisses me off.”

“What is it?” Yusuke walks around the couch, taking his seat next to Akira.

“There you are,” Ann says. “Akira was looking for you.”

 _Subtle as always_ , he thinks bitterly. “You were gone for quite a bit,” he pauses, searches for more words. “I thought something happened.”

“No,” Yusuke shakes his head, but he avoids their eyes, resting his elbows on his knees. “Well, yes, something did happen, but it’s not of any importance.”

“Can’t imagine anything comin’ out of his mouth is important,” Ryuji mumbles under his breath.

“Quite the opposite,” he disagrees. “It was a very informative talk.”

“Really...?” Akira muses. He gazes upon the small pile of empty plates that has accumulated on their table. A feeling of trepidation overcomes him, and he’s unsure of how to calm it. The worst part? Yusuke seemed to be at the center of it.

Shiho rises from her seat, fumbling to accept the string of messages that shakes her phone. “Excuse me...” and she reads through them quietly.

“Would it be alright if we met at the Meiji Shrine tomorrow? After school?” Yusuke asks him suddenly. “There are some things I would like to discuss with you.”

His heart pounds louder. _Like a date_? He should have playfully teased. But when it came to Yusuke and shrines, they hardly had _anything_ to do with romance let alone good feelings. Shrines, though a box for prayers, had become nothing more than trouble for him in the past two months. So, he nods. It’s the most he can do.

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” Shiho says suddenly, grabbing for her purse. “My father’s waiting for me outside.”

“For real?”

“Seriously?” Ann stands up with her. “But, it’s not 7 yet, is it?”

“It doesn’t matter for him,” Shiho says. She bows at the waist. “I’m very sorry, but I can’t keep them long. I think we- I mean, I think you have half an hour left before they’ll have our table leave for the next guests.”

So soon...? The leash they kept on Shiho was tight. “We’ll go with you.” Akira finds himself saying.

“Yeah! It’d suck to not be able to see you off.”

Shiho tucks a lock of hair behind her ears. “T-Thank you... If... If that’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all!” Ann says, and Akira inwardly cringes at the amount of cheer she’s putting into her voice. She’s trying to keep her spirits up, to keep smiling for both her and Shiho’s sake. “Come on, let’s get going!”

Ryuji must realize it too in the look he gives Ann. They were friends after all; he knew her to a lesser extent than Shiho, but still. It was never hard to tell when a friend was hiding something.

And their ride down the elevator is tense. As the floor numbers tick away one by one, even Ann grows quieter. Akira is not a physical person, but in that moment, he wants to reach out to her.

Somehow, Ryuji beats him to it, squeezing her hand gently, ignoring the look of surprise she gives him. But slowly, Akira sees her squeeze back, biting her lip as the doors scrape open.

Shibuya’s night air is humid, and they easily spot the car tucked behind a few vans. The headlights flicker twice before they too wait in silence. For as little sympathy as her parents seem to have regarding their daughter, they seemed to understand this was important to Shiho and her friends.

“I won’t be leaving until tomorrow night,” Shiho says quietly, and she smiles timidly. It’s a cute smile, one that Akira is glad Kamoshida hadn’t taken away completely. “Thank you, all of you. I’m sorry we didn’t get to spend as much time together like we wanted. It was because I’m so busy...”

Ann shakes her head. “We were all busy,” she insists.

“Ann’s still got your number,” Ryuji chips in. “So we can call you up whenever, yeah? Do another group chat.”

“Yeah...” Shiho says, and she casts a cautious look over her shoulder. She doesn’t want to keep them waiting. “Though... I mean it. If it weren’t for you guys, who knows how many more he would have hurt.”

“But he’s where he belongs now,” Ann says. “He can’t hurt you anymore,” and she lets out a wet, one note laugh. “Y-You know... It’s gonna be different without you. He’s gone, we got a new teacher, but...” she scrubs at her eyes, laughing a second time. “I said I wouldn’t cry...”

And Shiho pulls her in a hug, holds her tightly. “Thank you, Ann. For everything. If it wasn’t for you... for all of you... I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through it,” and she pulls away as the headlights light up their surroundings a second time.

“We’ll miss you, Suzui,” Ryuji says, and Yusuke nods in agreement, one of those rare, genuine smiles on his lips.

“Keep in touch,” Akira adds.

“I will,” she ducks her head, wipes at a stray tear that beads in the corner of her eye. And Shiho smiles too. Like Ann’s, it wobbles from the restrained tears. “Please take care, everyone.”

She walks away, each footfall a loud clap despite the cars that race by in the streets.

Shiho is close, but she has never been so far away.

Ann waves as Shiho turns to look at them one last time before climbing into the car. She waves at them as her father drives by, and they watch her until she turns at an intersection, blending in with the other passing cars.

And Ann rubs at her eyes, soft sobs muffled by her palms, her fingers, tears streaking down her cheeks and into her mouth. “Dammit...” she mumbles. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think I’d get so upset.”

“Don’t apologize,” Ryuji says gently. “She was your friend; it’s only natural you’d be upset.”

Ann nods shakily. “I miss her already...” she says. “I’m alone again, aren’t I?”

Akira shakes his head. “Not this time. We’re here for you, Ann.”

“And we won’t let something like that happen,” Yusuke chips in.

Ryuji swings an arm around her shoulder, pulls her into a one-armed hug. “Lean on us a little, yeah? We ain’t Shiho, but we’re still your friend.”

Ann smirks through her tears. “No chick-flick moments, huh?”

The shade of red that lights up Ryuji’s face is quite amusing. “I-I thought that’d cheer you up!”

“It did...” she sniffs. “Thank you.”

Akira smiles, but the mirth is short lived when he turns to Yusuke, who’s gazing off into the streets of Shibuya. He fails to see what he’s looking at (or for), but the words from the buffet rush back. Ryuji and Ann’s banter continues in the background.

He wants to forget about the world, lose himself in it with Yusuke. But he knows Yusuke is not the easily swayed. Whatever he set his mind on would not be forgotten until all the gaps were filled.

The trepidation follows him the ride home, and he doesn’t try and stop Yusuke when he gets off a stop earlier. There is the promise to leave the door unlocked. And that is all.

 **ANN [18:13].** hey

 **ANN [18:14].** you hear from Mishima?

 **SHIHO [18:17].** He texted me goodbye. I was hoping he’d join us at the buffet, especially since the dinner went well.

 **SHIHO [18:18].** He lives near me. Maybe I can give him a proper good bye.

 **ANN [18:20].** you should. i think he likes you.

 **SHIHO [18:23].** Huh? Why?

 **ANN [18:25].** i mean as a friend, but who knows? ;P

 **SHIHO [18:27].**?


	17. Chapter 15

**ANN.** hey. you remember ohya-san, right?

 **ANN.** according to her, Madarame left the country. i looked online too; it's all over the news.

 **ANN.** don't think she wants to speak with you anymore, but this is all weird, isn't it? was it connected to what happened in that world?

He doesn't have the answer to her questions, but he's seen the news reports about Madarame. It was another thing he would have to ask Yusuke about.

“Akira?" (he pockets away his phone.) "Are you coming?"

The sign above the train door followed by the speaker announces Harujuku Station. He's worried though, about how little Yusuke has talked about Madarame and his mother since they departed from Yomi. Surely it still troubled him...

"What's wrong?"

Well. Better now than never. "How are you holding up?" he follows closely behind Yusuke as they navigate to Yoyogi Park. At Yusuke's puzzled face, Akira continues, "You've heard the news about Madarame."

"Yes," Yusuke says vapidly. He doesn't seem to be paying attention, keeping his eyes front. But Akira knows him better than that. "I have not been to the atelier, but there was never anything of interest."

Although Yusuke's memories had said otherwise. On the bureau, Yusuke had looked at a painting with his mother, one that she made for them. To Akira, it was an untitled piece with much significance. Madarame most likely branded his name on her artwork before it fell to ruin. Now all Yusuke could settle for were pictures of it in a false portfolio. The public would never know the truth, but maybe it was for the better. If the people found out the truth about Madarame, it would create conflict with the story the news had spun.

Whatever Yomi did to accommodate Madarame's death, Akira did not wish to tamper with it.

"Some things are better left as they are," Yusuke looks at him. "We did our part, and now it's a matter of waiting for society to catch up."

Except they didn't _do_ anything. Madarame's bloodied body flashes in his mind's eye, black flowing in rivulets from his blank eyes and agape mouth. "Do you know what caused it?"

"Before? No," he shakes his head. "This way."

Akira fights back the frustration as Yusuke dismisses the topic once again. Disbelief and confusion settle in once he recognizes the path in Yoyogi Park. Meiji Shrine, the signs read, and Akira knows full well why Yusuke called him out so early and why Morgana had to stay in Leblanc's attic.

But now, he's in too deep to pull back.

\--

Fog hangs in the distance, but it’s the clearest he can see since his first visit back in late May. The doors are open arms to the forest. Spirits served as the blood that ran through this world’s veins, twisting and snarling along the dirt paths, dipping into the low haze or tangled in the tree’s branches. If he listens closely, maybe he can hear the whispered incantations gliding on the wind.

The temperature warms only a sliver as he stands beneath the eaves of the shrine. He once hoped the hoshi no tama would provide a bit of warmth. No luck.

Yusuke is facing the altar. He’s shed his kitsune body for this moment. That was okay though; it was always easier to talk to the human than the horse-sized fox.

“Shido’s different from Kamoshida,” he says when Akira comes to stand next to him. “Meaning I will have to physically bring him here for this to work. He is much more a threat than Kamoshida ever was.”

His nerves begin to stir, the hoshi no tama hard against his chest. Yusuke’s determination was a fire that could not be put out.

...But he had to try.

“Why are you doing this, Yusuke?” he asks.

The look he receives is, unsurprisingly, shocked. “Why? It’s to put him at a disadvantage. If someone like him were to rise in power, he will do nothing but lead this country to its demise.”

Akira shakes his head. “The masses will still follow him.”

“Then he is abusing his powers. He calls himself a 'demigod', but I have enough faith to believe the one who changed his blood was a malevolent spirit, not a God. There are some such as yourself and I that can see through his lies. When people place their lives in an invisible force, they become insusceptible to change. They believe the world can improve if they put their faith into one being,” Yusuke’s voice takes on a more impatient edge. So stubborn, as always. “This is not just a personal matter, Akira. He is not a threat to your world but mine as well.”

  
_(“This young man... attacked him out of nowhere.”_

  
_“Damn brat... I’ll sue!”_

  
_“We told you not to meddle in other people’s business. What were you thinking?”)_

Yusuke takes a step back. “Tomorrow there will be a meeting at the Diet building. I imagine there will be other members of the Conspiracy as well. I will be going with Akechi to confront Shido,” and then Yusuke appears less confident, dare he say, unsure. Since retrieving the hoshi no tama, Yusuke had been anything _but_ reluctant. “I can hurry to Yomi as Shido only if I have access to an altar. With as much power as he has, one mistake could end terribly.”

“Why are you doing this?,” Akira asks quietly.

He frowns. “Because he has targeted other hu—”

“Stop it,” he snaps, facing him with a glare of his own. “You can possess him all you want, but nobody is going to believe his confession unless he does it himself. Once he regains control, he can just fix everything to how he wants. The first method you used on Kamoshida may have worked, but it won’t for him,” a pause. Realization seeps into his veins, trickling towards his heart as the weight of the words press against him. “It’s going to be no different from Madarame. But this time, we don’t have any connections.”

“Madarame was a nogitsune; Shido is different,” Yusuke moves closer, stands over him as best he can. “You’re willing to let this man go unpunished for everything he did to you? To Ann and Ryuji? You were the one who believed in action over words, but instead you’re choosing to flee.”

“I’m not backing out _because_ of him. They’re going to find out something changed, and they’ll stop at nothing to hunt you down.” Akira counters, and it’s quickly blooming into one of the most frustrating arguments he’s had with Yusuke.

“I have no intention of backing down. I was hoping I could rely on you, but if I need to do this myself, I will.”

“And if you really cared, then you wouldn’t do this.”

They’re the words that he knows will warrant a reaction. They’re the words that he hopes will make Yusuke flinch in disgust at his own damn cowardice. They’re the words that were supposed to make him angry and abandon the plan... But they don’t. Yusuke goes quiet, looking down at Akira through narrowed eyes lined with disappointment.

( _don’t you dare look at me like that._ )

It feels far worse than it should.

He never wanted to upset Yusuke like this.

But now, it’s all he can do.

“I know you,” Akira continues softly. “You can tell Ryuji and Ann that this is about other people, but in the end, I know exactly what’s driving this. I’m not worth it, Yusuke,” he pauses, hating himself for every breath that leaves his body. “So quit wasting my time with your immature ideas and go back to your art.”

Something crumbles in Yusuke’s expression, glare softening at the harsh blow of the words.

Good.

 _Make him forget about all of this, make him hate you, you’ll get through the pain, you’ve done it once before, you can do it again_.

The grunt forces its way through his teeth as his back crashes against the pillar. It knocks his head a little, stars spilling into his vision swiftly before his vision clears. His breath stills in his throat, alarm racing through him as his eyes slide to Yusuke’s face.

“And I know you,” he says. “You can try all you want, but my heart is set on this.”

He grits his teeth. Such stubbornness... He’s hated it, he loved it.

“Why, if you refuse to help, do you intend on standing in my way?”

‘ _I won’t be the only one. Morgana, Ryuji, Ann... They’ll agree with me. We’ll do everything we can to stop you._ ’

“Ah!” Akira inhales sharply as Yusuke’s claws dig into his shoulders before retracting just as quickly. They feel sore as he tries to massage his fingers against the wounds.

Yusuke whispers an apology, but he still awaits the answer.

“This is stupid,” he rests his head back against the pillar, keeping his gaze on the shimenawa hanging from the eaves.

“It’s not.”

He says nothing, resigned. He’s too tired to argue; he just wants to go home. Sojiro would ask him where Yusuke was, and he’d lie.

“Will you answer me?”

“Will it change your decision?”

“No,” Yusuke answers honestly. “But I am offering to listen. So, please.”

Stubborn, innocent, oblivious... Was it all three or just one that was behind Yusuke’s words?

There are worse case scenarios that storm in and out of his mind’s eye. In a fairytale, this would end perfectly with a little bow to tie it all together. But for all the mythical things life threw at him this past year, he cannot see that happy ending.

Just a fantastical twist to an already mundane life.

“Akira,” he tries again, slower this time. “Why is this any different? We’ve done it before.”

“Because I don’t want you to die!” the words explode out of him as he shoves back at Yusuke. It takes him off guard, and he stumbles, astonishment lighting up his face at the outburst. “You think this is just like before but it’s not. You’re just one kitsune against a _demigod_. This entire mission is suicide, and you know it.”

He gives a brief shake of his head. “No,” Yusuke argues. “Our goal is success—”

“It’s never a success if there are causalities,” Akira says around the lump in his throat. “You don’t get to throw you life away and act like no one will care.”

“I’m not going to die.”

“You’re so arrogant.”

“And you’re being rather hypocritical,” Yusuke advances, scowling. “I’m not allowed to throw away my life, but you are?”

“I never said anything about killing myself,” he says coolly.

“But you think no one would miss you if something happened?” Yusuke snaps, the glint of his fangs catching in the sunlight. “What about Morgana? Ryuji, Ann?” he swallows. “What about me?”

 _Look who’s the hypocrite now,_ that voice inside him quips.

What a pair they made: hypocrites, uncaring of their own lives... It was disgusting.

They truly were insane together.

He has half a mind to push Yusuke away when he hugs him, unintentionally moving them closer to that pillar. “I have no intention of dying,” Yusuke says against his ear. “You need to trust me.”

 _Trust me._ Yusuke had said that so many times since the first. How it evolved from blind faith that Yusuke would lock up Kamoshida to something exchanged between lovers, he does not know. And he never would.

Akira still feels it, the anger rumbling in his stomach, quelled only marginally by Yusuke’s near-sighted assurance. He couldn’t see into the future; he knew the outcome as well as Akira did.

Each time before, he blindly followed Yusuke’s decisions.

This one, however...

He pulls away to meet his eyes, frowns, “Yusuke, if you go after him...” and it’s too much to meet his gaze, but Akira holds out the hoshi no tama, lets it dangle by the thread around his own neck. “...you can have this back. I’m not letting you bind yourself to me if it means you’re going to die.”

“Akira...”

He doesn’t listen, walks back to the little alcove where the kitsune statue would be waiting. For a moment, he contemplates praying to it, begging some unhearing God to stop Yusuke before he did something stupid.

But gods never listened anyway.

His hand touches the head of the statue and Yomi vanishes.

**AKECHI [18:11].** Hello Sae-san. I won’t be available for the investigation tomorrow. But I do have a name of one of his former art students.

 **AKECHI [18:12].** Nakanohara Natsuhiko.

 **AKECHI [18:13].** I hope this helps you.

 **SAE [18:45].** Fine. But this is the third time you’ve had to call off. You’re going to need a better excuse for the director. I can’t continue to cover for you like this.

Morgana waits for Yusuke as Akira buries himself in the textbook and notes on his desk. He springs up on the desk, pawing at the pencil that twitches back and forth. “Hey,” he says. “I know you can’t understand me, but I’m hoping you’ve seen Yusuke today...”

“Cut it out, Morgana.”

He does. “You don’t know this, but he’s really going after Shido. He’s with Akechi. So what are you doing? Why is Yusuke having to rely on him when he’s trying to change Shido’s heart for _your_ sake?”

Akira sets down the pencil with a huff, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his palm. “What’s going on with you?”

“Why’re you bothering asking?” Morgana’s tail swishes against the surface, accidentally brushing against the page of Akira’s homework. “You look like that crazy cat owner who talks to his cat because he can’t get a girlfriend.”

They stare at each other, unmoving.

Finally, “Yusuke...?”

“No, but close enough,” Morgana quips. His eyes slide to the shelf by Akira’s bed. There’s nothing to help point in the direction of... Oh.

He’s been crammed in Akira’s schoolbag for too many times to count. Having the kitsune idols Yusuke keeps giving Akira crammed against his ass was _not_ comfortable. But now, he’s grateful for them. Springing off the desk, he buries his head into the bag, teeth clenching around the newest idol. ‘ _Perfect_.’

“You want to go to Yomi...?” Akira asks upon taking it from him.

“Urrgh, no! I’m saying...” he rushes over to the easel tucked against the storage shelves and the futon. “This! Art! Yusuke!” and he scratches at it, wood tugging at every drag of his claws. When Akira reaches down to stop him from making the easel into his next scratching post (which he _might_ have considered...), he hops back on the desk, idol sitting innocently from where Akira had left it. His eyes slide to the hoshi no tama around Akira’s neck, and he lifts a paw. “That too! Come on, I’m spoon-feeding you clues here!”

Akira holds the star ball in one hand, the idol in the other. Morgana counts at least a handful of seconds before he speaks. “But... he wouldn’t...”

“Yeah he would,” Morgana protests childishly. “He would do anything for you because he cares about you.” His ears twitch at the sound Akira locking the windows. Okay...? “Maybe you should stop him? He could be with Akechi right now at— yeah, that’s it! Let’s go!”

They’re downstairs when Akira shoos him with his foot.

“W-What the hell? I’m coming too!”

“Stay here,” he commands, physically pushing him when Morgana tries to worm his way around.

“But I’m the one who _told_ you!” Morgana hisses. “Akira! You can’t go into Yomi alone—”

The door slams in his face.

Morgana wastes no time in scratching at the corner. “ _Jerk_! He’s gonna get himself killed! I need to find Ryuji and Lady—” the sudden slamming on the glass door snaps him out of his frenzy. He flinches back when Akira raises a finger at him on the other side.

“That’s enough!” he snaps, voice and eyes hard.

By the time the shock leaves him, Akira has already walked out of his line of sight. Paws could not open doors nor could they pick up a phone. Morgana sits, unsure of what to do. He’s trapped by Akira’s own hand... a part of him almost felt betrayed. But he can’t pursue him if he couldn’t open a lousy _door_.

Helpless. Completely helpless.

And not for the first time, Morgana wishes he were human.

\--

 **AKIRA.** Ryuji, I need you to meet me in Yongen.

 **AKIRA.** Yusuke went into Yomi alone.

 **RYUJ.**?? ain’t that ok for him tho?

 **RYUJI.** he's a kitsune

 **AKIRA.** He went after Shido Masayoshi. He may be trying to get him to change his heart but it’s not like Kamoshida. Shido is different.

 **AKIRA.** Please.

 **RYUJI.** omw

\--

It is not so difficult to enter the Diet Building. And it is not so difficult to reach Shido. He gathers a few curious stares, but walking alongside Akechi must have its benefits. No one pries into his affairs.

They’re standing in the elevator, watching the numbers on the black screen as they climb from one floor to the next.

“What drives you, Kitagawa-kun?”

Yusuke’s answer is quick and firm. “You know who it is.”

He laughs lightly, a fake noise. “Of course, of course...”

...Floor 3...

“Your kind protects others, yes? Quite noble if I do say so myself. But you’re different from the others. I would say Kurusu-kun is lucky. As are his friends and anyone else out there who will be targeted by...” he pauses. “Well, you don’t need me to spell it out.”

...Floor 6...

“No,” the doors slide open slowly. His very aura pricks at Yusuke. “I’m the one who is fortunate.”

“Good evening, Shido-san,” Akechi greets, stepping onto the carpet. Yusuke follows.

“Whatever this is,” Shido’s words hang threateningly. “it better be important.”

The room has a nice ceiling-to-floor window overlooking Shibuya. But the name on the desk behind it is not stapled with the characters Shido Masayoshi. This office was not his, but it would be one day. Or so that’s what Shido would like to think.

Yusuke does not listen as Akechi speaks, spurring up some fake story about those rumored shut downs, the first thing they talked about in Ueno. He keeps his eyes trailed on Shido’s hands, the way his fingers beat against the wooden desk as he slouches in a chair that is not his. He is a few feet taller than Yusuke, but height would not be a problem.

“Who is this? You know how I feel about visitors.”

Akechi looks at him. Yusuke does not look back. “This is Kitagawa Yusuke,” he introduces. “He has expressed an interest himself in the mental shutdown cases. Considering the recent one was conducted on his teacher.”

“Madarame Ichiryusai,” it is not a question. Shido’s smirk is dangerous, and he comes to lean back against the front of the desk. “Didn’t know he still had any students left.”

The frown creases his eyebrows before he can stop himself. What audacity...

“I apologize,” he lies. “I don’t mean to be insensitive.”

Calm down. He sighs heavily through his nose. There were two openings: Shido’s hands and his forehead. Requirement of physical contact was never easy... His fist clenches. How much further could he be backed into that wall? Akechi looks at him through the corner of his eye. A silent message, a silent command.

‘ _Now_.’

Ever obedient, Yusuke moves.

The confident smirk is forced from Shido’s face as Yusuke clenches his hands, thumb pressing against the tips of his nails. “Get your hands off—” his voice catches in his throat the minute Yusuke pushes at his forehead.

It is like running into a brick wall.

Shido is not a weak-willed man. For as twisted as his ambitions were, he was a determined leader who intended on stepping on anyone’s hands who held tight to the rung of a political ladder. But he can feel Shido pushing back, a mental scream that ricochets into his own head to _let go_.

Beneath the anger was fear.

Yusuke closes in on that opening, pursuing a cornered Shido in his mind’s eye. His body feels lighter, and it’s as if he’s being washed down the drain like water. He falls back the instant he closes in on the Mental Shido. There’s the flash of kitsunenebi behind his eyes, flaring to life in Shido’s on pupils before Yusuke dares to look.

The first thing that registers is his back is quite sore, and that the corner bit into his lower spine. Not hard enough to create a causality, but enough for it to hurt. The second is that he’s on the floor, Akechi looking down on him before extending a hand to pull him to his feet.

Playing around as Shido is different from the times he’s possessed the students in Madrame’s atelier. There’s more of a resistance that screeches at his soul with every movement. Shido was powerful, and he was to not be underestimated.

“Are you alright, Kitagawa-kun?”

“I’m fine,” he internally grimaces at the sound of his- Shido’s voice. “Let us go to Yomi. The sooner he confesses, the better.”

Akechi merely nods, opening the office door. “There’s an altar set up near the lobby of the Diet Building. Since you’ve possessed Shido, it may be easier for you to cross worlds,” he frowns. “But I see we may have made a miscalculation. He doesn’t seem willing to give you full control.”

Yusuke shakes his head, sweeping aside the voice a third time. A shrine would be the best bet, lest he lose control the instant the mist clouded his vision. “We don’t have time to take risks,” he says, allowing himself to be led.

“Of course. Oh,” the sound of leaves crunch loudly in the emptiness of the elevator. He smirks, holding them out to Yusuke. “Do be careful with leaving evidence, Shido-san.”

He cringes.

Ryuji and Ann meet him at the shrine around the corner of Leblanc. There’s an odd comfort about it now, the way the very altar seems to speak back to him as he steps closer, rolling the kitsune idol between careful fingers. It knows why he’s here, it knows what he wants, and it knows it won’t be allowed to spit him back out unless Yusuke is with him.

“You’re sure?” he asks them once last time.

Ryuji’s lips tighten into a fine line. “We’re the ones who should be sayin’ that,” he says.

“I can’t let him do something he’s going to regret.” Akira responds, and the words feel recited, as if he’s practiced them so many times before Morgana. But Morgana would have done something, lured him to the shrine just to plunge into Yomi with him.

“I know. When you’ve made up your mind ‘bout somethin’, it’s hard to change.”

Ann folds her arms across her chest. There’s a moment where she refuses to look at either of them. “We can’t come with you?”

“Last time you went there, you passed out,” Well. _Ryuji_ had, but technicalities. “That’s going to leave you open to Shido and whatever else is there. Yusuke and I may not be able to protect you. The most you can do is be an anchor to the real world, in case something happens. You both know where Morgana is; he’ll be there if we don’t come back.”

“You will though,” Ann pauses. “won’t you?”

 _Of course_ , he goes to say. The words evade him.

“Hey, Akira—”

“I don’t like it either,” Ryuji starts. “But you’re gonna do it no matter what we say,” and he pushes the sheathed dagger into his hand. It's oddly reminiscent of the one Morgana had lent him. Its bald is silver, the hilt pure black. Akira would question where he got this later... maybe. He pushes it in the space between his boot and his foot. “Bring him home, and maybe in one piece, yeah?”

“Just...” Ann’s teeth dig into her bottom lip. “Just come back safe.”

The _kitsunenebi_ flares softly, and all Akira does is nod. Tying it around his neck once more, he places the idol at the center of the altar. “I will.”

Ryuji is as uncertain as Ann, but Akira knows the truth. He’s trying to maintain a front for both himself and for her... maybe for Akira as well.

The idol cracks beneath his touch, the noises of Yongen submerging, replaced with the soft calling of unnatural wind. His eyes crack open, heart clogging his throat.

"...Ryuji?" Ann asks.

"Hm?"

"Why did you bring a dagger?"

"Well, it was either that or pepper spray... Somethin' tells me pepper spray won't do a whole lot 'gainst uh... not-humans."

This...

This is not the Yomi he is familiar with. “

Cold winter air nips at him through his clothes, stings his face, and the lightest flurry of snowflakes descends upon them. But he can see the outline of a shrine in the distance, powdered with snow. Yusuke’s hoshi no tama is warm, meaning he was in Yomi...

...but _where_?

He clenches his teeth against the chill. Snow for a cool summer day... His mind roots through different terms and possibilities. The pieces of the sky aren’t lodged into the ground as Morgana had once described to Yusuke, but he would’ve taken _that_ over whatever _this_ was. The winter air too was unusual as well, as frigid as the lack of temperature in a dead body.

Given this is Yomi, it would not surprise him if the unnatural cold air was linked to the dead more than it was Shido’s supposed ‘distortion’.

Akira pushes aside the sudden tightening in his chest. He had much to be worried for, but he was too far in to go back now.

The shrine, however, is unlike the ones he’s seen before. It dons the maroon color of the miniature fushim-inari shrine, decorated from shimenawa lazing from one eave to the next. But the statue at its center is not from Shinto, nor is it from any folklore he’s read during his childhood.

The golden lion, its metal a sharp beacon in the blank air of a false winter, glares back threateningly. Beneath its paw is a clutch of screaming humans, faces locked in a scream of terror with their tiny arms extended outwards for help or pressing their palms against its clawed foot in suffering that would never unfreeze.

It was a statue befitting an arrogant demigod, a mirror to the people Shido would gladly walk over to reach the top

“Akira?” Yusuke speaks through Shido, taking a cautious step forward.

And that’s when he sees it.

There are torches pinned to the sturdiest posts of the shrine, flames licking the snow that falls within their reach. At both Shido and Akechi’s feet are leaves. They encircle them, fresh despite the harsh bite of cold. But the tools for an unspoken ritual isn’t what sends his mind into a temporary shock.

Kamoshida glares at him from beneath the roof of the shrine. At least this time he’s not wearing the speedo... His skin is still that unnatural pink shade, but he’s long abandoned the cape, small horns protruding from his skull.

“Why is he here?” he finds himself asking.

“Fueled by his hatred for your friend,” Akechi answers instead. “but still tied to Shido where he can’t fully leave his side whenever he crosses over. You’re familiar with the Ikiryo, correct?”

Akira nods, eyes never leaving Kamoshida, especially when he walks around Shido and Akechi, stopping only a handful of feet in front of him. He glares back, does not miss how Yusuke had watched his every step.

“Consider this his redemption as well.”

“That’s enough,” Yusuke cuts in. Kamoshida at least has the decency to look at him when he’s being addressed. “If this is necessary, then let it be done. Standing in someone else’s altar, beneath their God is...”

Akechi pulls one of the torches free. “Disrespectful, I am aware. Quite noble of you to respect Shido’s grounds despite all that he’s done to your friend.”

“This is not respect.”

He hums, and briefly, Akira catches the look that flits across his face. Akechi’s regret conjures confusion within Akira. It is one last shred of humanity before the next set of words flee Akechi’s mouth.

“I’m truly sorry for this, Kitagawa-kun.”

And the pine leaves burst a crescendo of flames, tiny little candles for a ritual that was not meant for Shido.

Yusuke crumbles, falling to his knees with a noise of pain.

Akira sees it before his knees hit the pavement: The disbelief of betrayal so sharp on Shido’s— no, _Yusuke’s_ face, and he barely has time to move before Akechi buries the torch into Shido’s legs. Agony rips free from Shido’s throat in Yusuke’s voice, and he falls to the floor of the shrine like a cut marionette. Demon Kamoshida is quick too, slamming Akira’s head into the ground. He coughs, snow and dirt clogging his gums and he lifts his head in time to see the torch come down again, and again, and again.

The reek of burning pine leaves singes his throat, and he witnesses Yusuke hacking through Shido’s body, struggling to stay on propped elbows. There’s the glimpse of fangs digging into his lips, the sudden flash of Yusuke’s dark eyes, before they flicker back to normal.

“Hey, ease up,” Demon Kamoshida says for the first time, and though voice is still as grating as the last, Akira’s breath stills _Ikiryo could speak..._? “Don’t wanna fuck this up any more than you have.”

Akechi’s face is blank. “His blood lives on in me. But unlike him, I will not stray. Not once have I used my powers for manipulation,” his lips twist into a sneer. “He is no different from this _kitsune_.”

The orange of the torch is smothered against dark clothing, scorching flesh. Yusuke’s scream twists his heart, cuts into the valves and it feels as if the very circulation is being choked out of him.

“Stop, Akechi!” Akira’s voice too is strangled. “You’re going to kill them both!”

“And why does this concern you?” he looks down at Akira, with a curiosity so fake Akira wants to tear it from his face. “You dragged yourself into this mess as well, giving yourself to something that does not belong in the human world. This creature you love, the one who ‘saved your life’, is no better than the other messengers of Inari. They are mischievous, they will take what they want, lie and manipulate... It is in their genes and there is no escaping it. Think on this, Kurusu: Has he not betrayed your trust as well? Going behind your back to speak with me?”

Disappointment, and maybe even _betrayal_ resurfaces in his throat, chants with the emotional part of his mind that Yusuke lied to him, Yusuke was selfish, Yusuke used him, Yusuke was stubborn... Yusuke protected him, Yusuke pissed him off but still loved Akira all the same, Yusuke never, not _once_ thought of himself in the long run...

And Yusuke was going to die.

His exhale is shaky around the lump in his throat. “He did,” Akira says, lips pressed into the dirt. “He lied to me, and it pisses me off...” his hand fumbles for the handle of the dagger sandwiched between his foot and the inside wall of his boot. “...but if it were me instead, he wouldn’t be sitting on his ass either.”

Demon Kamoshida shrieks, splash of blood pelting against Akira’s face, into his eyes, staining his lips. He gags, pushing up with as much strength as he can, and jams the dagger under Demon Kamoshida’s chin. The glint of silver peaks in between Demon Kamoshida’s parted lips, a beacon against the pink of his tongue, the red of his mouth. His hands grasp the hilt, slippery with blood, and he tucks his legs to his chest before pushing, pulling with his arms until they scream in protest along with Demon Kamoshida.

Akira rips off the hoshi no tama, jams it in between his blazer and shirt. “Arsene!”

And Demon Kamoshida staggers as three golden arcs break through skin and muscle, nerves and bone. He hears Arsene laughing madly as Akira crashes against Demon Kamoshida’s chest, stabbing blindly into his face, once, twice, three times. Jagged lines tattoo themselves over Demon Kamoshida’s stunned expression, mouth slack in a cry that would never come.

“This time,” he clambers off him, calls on Arsene once more, energy pumping through his veins. “stay dead.” Eiha swallows Kamoshida’s body in an explosion of reds and blacks.

The surge of adrenaline, the taste of not having to give a damn about consequences, all flickers the instant he turns around. His teeth unclench, glare loosening at the sight of Shido standing over Yusuke’s unconscious body, fur dark with burns, the back of his legs having received the brunt of the damage.

Akechi looks equally as unamused. “Have you seen what you’ve become, Kurusu?” he demands coolly. “That demon is twisting your soul as well. What will the police think when they find Kamoshida dead in his cell?”

“Shut up,” Akira snaps, and his fingers bite into the dagger. “Get the hell away from him.”

“To think that little brat from so long ago would be you,” Shido muses, bending down to Yusuke’s beaten form. Akira’s heart clenches in anger when he sees Yusuke cringe from his touch with a whimper. “You have gone beyond redemption,” he says, rising to his feet as Akira approaches. “But so has he. And there is no need for such filth in this world or that one.”

“Akira...” Yusuke utters weakly, struggling to his feet.

Shido plants his foot firmly in his back. “How arrogant you were to try and control me,” he muses, as if he wasn’t pressing Yusuke into the hard ground. “Me! A God, someone you should be worshipping, not trying to control!” His heel grinds into Yusuke’s fur, crazed smirk spreading wider at Yusuke’s cry.

Akira’s seen enough.

Light bursts at his feet and sends him flying. The snow folds beneath his body, and he is only given a second to turn his head before the sword is shoved beneath his throat. He cannot read Akechi, cannot see what thoughts swim in his mind, but doesn’t dare move where he will be noticed.

“Stand down, Kurusu,” Akechi says simply. And Akira glimpses something standing behind him, something white and gold, before it is swept away in the dances of the wind. Somewhere behind him, Yusuke screams. “I can’t allow this.”

And he anticipates Akira’s movements, raising his sword to effortlessly parry against Arsene’s clawed hand.

Pain bursts to life in the side of his own fist. He springs up, diving for Akechi’s neck. The sound of metal against metal claps loudly in his ears. That being from earlier, the white and gold body dissolves into reality, a physical form as well. It is a humanoid, blues and reds decorate its chest, its face, the exaggerated blue cape dangling from his shoulders. Akira only has time to glimpse the large bow, two arches shaped like eagle wings, before the arrow embeds itself into Arsene’s shoulder.

His cry is in sync with Arsene’s. His hand falters, dagger hanging loosely from his grip. He dares himself to look up, sees the black of Arsene’s blood dribbling down his arm. It’s a foolish mistake. Akechi lunges. Not for the chest, not for the throat, not for something that will end Akira’s life in the blink of an eye. The fine blade of the rapier crashes into Akira’s thigh. His scream is blotted out by the white-hot agony.

He stumbles as the blade is retracted, clenching his fingers around the dagger as hard as he can. Akira flinches as Akechi’s own demon nocks a second arrow. Its golden head glints in warning. He backpedals from Akechi, from that monster – he doesn’t _know_ – and falls on his side.

Each and every strike reverberates throughout his body as It fires one arrow after another, each one dipped in the magic of light. Arsene too slouches.

Akechi does not shove his sword under Akira. No.

He stares at him, raises a single hand for his demon to cease its assaults.

An obedience Akira once glimpsed in Yusuke to Madarame flows in the demon’s movements.

“Give it up, Kurusu,” he says, voice careful as if he’s selected each word well before this day came. “Why would you fight a losing battle?”

Akira doesn’t give him the luxury of an answer.

His foot jams itself against Akechi’s leg. He relishes the brief flash of pain in his eyes (the demon curls in itself in surprise), pushing himself up with every ounce of strength he could muster.

They both stand, posture staggered. Sword against dagger. Locked and waiting for their owners to slip.

Anger flashes in Akechi’s eyes, and he pushes back, Akira backpedals, each footfall sends his thigh yelling at him to stop, to stop moving, to just lay down his dagger, to make it all stop—

“Not bad...” his limp is not as prominent as Akira’s. “A shame you put all your faith in a _messenger_ of the gods instead of a God himself.”

There is no need for the words. Akira raises his head high, stares down the blade Akechi levels to his face, daring him to move forward. His fingers are numb from twisting in the snow, their icy touch burning them to their very bones.

“A waste of a life,” Akechi continues, his demon disappearing in a crescendo of the very light that burst at his feet from earlier. “I’m sorry it had to turn out like this, Kurusu. But you know too much about him, about _me_. As long as you blindly side yourself with that kitsune, you cannot live.”

Akira’s lips curve into a dangerous sneer. “Don’t speak to me about blind loyalty after all that you’ve done.” He winces at the nick of the steel against his cheek. “What you did to Madarame and anyone before him is not justice. In the end, you’re nothing but a kid who follows because he doesn’t know how to lead.”

Akechi’s fingers wrap themselves around Akira’s throat, pressing him against the ground with a knee against his chest. It’s the most emotion he’s seen in Akechi’s eyes, and it’s just as disturbing as he’d expect. “Don’t lecture me, you piece of shit! I know what I’m doing, and I know my place. Maybe you should learn yours.”

His nails scrape against the roughness of Akechi’s gloves, searching further down his wrist for bare skin. “I have,” he manages roughly.

“Shut your damn mouth, Kurusu. This is fate, and you can fight against it all you want, but in the end, you’ll fall right into your destined path.”

He wants to laugh.

He can feel it bubbling beneath the fingers tightened around his throat.

Fate, fate, fate...

Is that what it all came back to?

It all fell back on some gods playing a game of chess with one too many pieces. A pawn to A4 to meet its untimely demise beneath the wheels of a train. A rook to E6 so the blood would stream from his mouth and his eyes. A king cornering an unwitting knight at B3 only to be overcome by the white queen.

This was as much a game to the gods as it was to Akechi and Shido.

What were lives but mere pawns on a checkered board?

Nobody asked to be removed from the first two rows, to be taken from their column.

“Do you hear yourself?” his voice is strained, harsh, grating to his own ears. But Akechi listens. “You’re just as powerless to the whims of fate as we are.”

“I’ve had enough,” Akechi slams Akira’s head against the ground, letting go to step back. His discarded sword finds its way to his hands. “A shame it had to end like this. So be it. Your life ends here as fate—!”

He halts.

Akira leans back on his elbows.

Akechi coughs, a rattling cough that shakes his chest and constricts his throat. His body buckles, hand muffling crammed against his mouth. His knees shudder as they try to support his feet that sway and trip. The sword clutters silently against the snow.

He can barely form words of surprise let alone gasp in shock.

Black and red blood, thick trails as slow and heavy as molasses stream from his eyes, paint his face as he coughs harder and harder. It dribbles in long strings, rivulets that scurry down his neck and stain the front of his shirt, sputtering from his parted lips, dangling from his fingers and pooling into trembling hands.

“Akechi...” he reaches as Akechi falls to his knees, scarlet and black tears that dip his eyelashes in red, and Akira glimpses his eyes, pink and runny, but the equally red pupils are still there, blown wide in a panic that Akira knows he cannot soothe. Akechi’s hand claws at his throat, his chest.

(Madarame’s garbled words and noises mesh into his mind.)

He wants to look away

But he doesn’t.

He watches, stunned into shock as the blood oozes out from his face, breath crumbling into coughs that shake the very air into silence.

Akira can only struggle to his feet, lean his weight into his left leg. He stares on in horror.

“You’ve said enough,” Shido’s voice rumbles beneath Akechi’s sounds of anguish. His hand lowers to his side. “I saw into your heart as well, your carefully executed plan to rid the world of me and of his kitsune. You thought the quarter of my blood in your veins would be enough to make change.” He kicks him, watching unamused as Akechi curls into himself, breathing wet and labored. “But it seems you have more human in you than I had anticipated. _That_ is your fatal flaw.”

Akechi says nothing as Shido’s foot plants itself against the back of his head.

He scoffs. “You always made the simplest of miscalculations.” Shido’s gaze slides to Akira. “You’re still here?”

His eyes scan the shrine.

Yusuke, too, struggles to all fours, pupils blown as a snarl rips from his throat quietly.

Akira cannot see a trace of the man he came to love in those eyes.

“I’m feeling merciful today,” Shido carries on. “Take your mutt and leave this place.” And the world begins to shake. Akechi looks up, one eye clenched as the other sheds one last drop of vermillion tears. “If you can, that is.”

He looks at Akechi, avoids his eyes. His hand clenches the dagger. “That’s your son,” Akira says quietly. “You’d do that to your kid?”

“A kid? Yes, he is one. A fool who does not deserve the blood of the divine. What better way than to extract it from his body?” Shido chuckles darkly. “Clock’s ticking... Take your head start before I change my mind. Not him—” Akira halts, fingers inches away from Akechi’s wrist. “Don’t worry; I’m not going to kill him; that’d be a waste of a life.”

Yusuke’s growl rises, and Akira sees how he drags himself closer to them on shaky paws. He pushes past Shido.

His wounds are deep, white fur with dyed patches of red, the scent of the pine leaves cling to his pelt, stinging Akira’s nose.

Shido’s laugh is dark.

Akira turns, glaring—

—white. An endless sea of white specked with Akechi’s blood.

“He disappeared...?” disbelief washes through him.

No.

No, Shido wouldn’t disappear.

He would watch them struggle. Watch them to their very end. He would relish the sight of them limping to the exit. All while he sat on a throne neither of them could see.

Akira looks back at Yusuke.

He snaps at him, eyes wide and strangled with fear and rage.

Something inside of him trembles. “Yusuke...” he’s rewarded with another snarl. “What did they do to you?” _What the hell was that ritual?_

His body is damaged, and Akira wishes there was a way to heal the burns that pepper him like stars on a dark sky.

But he does not grace Akira with a verbal answer.

More growling, body taut like the bow of Akechi’s demon.

And he feints, tails whipping harshly against the air.

“Yusuke...!” the name flees Akira’s lips in a gasp that clenches his throat. He’s struck with indecision and the harsh cold of the air. Something at the back of his mind yells to get away, abandon the idea of reasoning with a mind that could not use logic. It chides him, the hoshi no tama beating wild and hot against his chest, warming the silk around his neck.

But Akira doesn’t listen.

There’s a sharp noise as Yusuke’s jaw snaps shut in warning, supporting himself on quivering front limbs. His back legs received the brunt of the damage, burns stretching along exposed flesh and along his body. Yusuke snarls, coughing wetly and globules of blood spatter against the snow softly in the silence of a day that never ended.

He tries again, his own teeth clapping together as snowflakes fall harder around them. They twist and turn, pirouette around one another before joining their fellow dancers on the ground. In any other scenario, Yusuke would marvel its beauty, launch into a poetic spiel about winter. Now Akira wants nothing more than to hear it. If it would erase the twisted sneer from his face, he would give anything.

It’s no different from staring down a scared animal.

In a way, it is.

Akira swallows, hard. “Easy, easy...” one step, Yusuke remains still, ears pressing against his skull. “There’s nothing more we can do... Let’s go home, we’ll figure something out.”

Another step. Yusuke’s lips fold back over his teeth.

(It was working...?)

“I know you’re in pain but let me help. You’ve lost a lot of blood already,” Akira kneels, bites his lower lip as his mind desperately grasps for the right words and the pain in his thigh burns anew “I’m not going to hurt you.”

He searches Yusuke’s eyes for any trace of recognition. Those very eyes he came to love, the ones that came to look at him with such tenderness when their lips pressed against one another, the ones he wished to lose himself in the nights of passion that were to come... He wasn’t going to lose Yusuke to this. Nobody was going to get themselves hurt again because of Shido ( _because of_ him—).

The blood pounds against his brain loudly, drowning out the gossip carried on frigid wind. Nature watches anxiously at the scene blooming like flowers in spring. Yusuke’s breathing is labored, blood dribbling down his chin in rivulets.

His body wracks violently with another cough.

Red. Red. There’s so much red. Red flower petals on white tiles as they crash against the air and dot the blank canvas of snow.

A disturbing painting by a hurting artist.

Apprehension lances through his veins, surging to the core of his heart. It propels him to his feet, shoving him three hasty steps forward.

The world tilts, his glasses are flung from his face, hard ground digging into his back as Yusuke’s fangs plunge into his raised forearm. His chest burns, claws ripping through clothing as if they were mere tissue paper. Through the tangled panic of his mind, Akira hears a noise, and it isn’t until he feels the strain of his own throat does he realize it’s his own voice.

So much red.

He’s not sure if the blood that stains his exposed flesh is his own or both of theirs.

His legs lash out wildly, struggling to push back against Yusuke’s weight, shield his lower body from the frenzy of claws. Akira brings his other hand to the head, pushing and digging his nails into thick fur.

Fire.

His body’s on fire, lit by an inferno of pain.

He practically _feels_ the undiluted rage and hate – Yusuke _never_ looked at him like that – with every bite, as Yusuke lurches back, lunges forward, plunges into his shoulder, nears _dangerously_ close to his throat. All the while snarls spill from Yusuke’s muzzle, unmindful as each tooth carves into his victim’s skin.

A snap of teeth, fur brushing against his neck, the strap of the hoshi no tama, once. Twice. Again.

The warm wetness of blood blooms across his chest, soaks his pants, it all _burns_ —

Anguish grasps his voice, tightens around the words. “ _Yusuke-_!! Stop- It’s _me_!!”

Panic blinds logic, his forearm singing with pain as he opts to hold him back with both hands. He slams his right heel down on the back paw amidst the thrashing, mashes his left fist down on his snout and Yusuke’s yelp pierces his ears as he rears off Akira, shaking his head wildly.

Akira crawls back, breath sawing in and out of him as Yusuke slowly regains focus. His fingers grasp the hoshi no tama, mind scrabbling to send off a prayer to whichever Goddess Yusuke dedicated his whole life to.

He doesn’t pray, he corrects himself. What was the use of praying to a higher being if it there had been so much hurt in the world? If a Goddess or God cared, why would they allow such suffering? Where was this “Inari” when Ryuji and Ann were being targeted by Kamoshida? Where was “Inari” when Madarame dedicated his time to abusing Yusuke and his mother? Where was “Inari” when _he_ got put on probation when he stuck up for someone?

A Goddess didn’t fix any of his problems.

Yusuke did.

He dedicated his time mending the wounds that Akira thought could never be healed. He became a friend and something _more_ in such a short time. He became someone worth trusting.

A startled scream bursts from his mouth, Yusuke’s jaws closing around his ankle, dragging his injured body closer. Snow bunches up at his heels, and Akira feels his heart leap into his throat as Yusuke hovers over him. Bloodied and scraped from the bite of frozen ground, Akira’s grip tightens around the hoshi no tama. He begins to curl in on himself, a weak attempt to shield him from whatever else damage may be done.

There’s no trace of Yusuke. He only sees a frightened animal driven mad by agony.

 _(_ His mind screeches in panic, _I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die-)_

Tears spill down the sides of his face, drips into the shell of his ears. “Yusuke...” he sobs harshly. “It’s okay, he can’t hurt you anymore, so _please_...” Akira forces himself to look in his eyes, grasps what little energy he has left to force the weakness out of his voice. “Come back.”

Silence.

He counts three seconds. Four. Five. Six.

A cry rips from Yusuke’s throat, he pulls back-

-His eyes clench shut, waits for the feeling of teeth in his throat-

The weight melts, simmers into something _much_ lighter. It’s familiar. Akira dares himself to crack open an eye.

Hands and knees, blue hair shielding his face, Yusuke collapses into a fit of coughing. When it’s over, he turns his attention to Akira- no, to the hoshi no tama. Its pure color is a stark contrast against the black of his shirt, the blue flame serving as Yusuke’s very heart. Akira’s not _quite_ sure what it is Yusuke sees, what triggered the end of his claws and teeth scoring through skin and clothing.

Shock and disbelief, guilt and self-hate, worry and love – it all flits through his eyes so fast.

“Akira...” the name is weak, and he moves closer, reaches.

He doesn’t mean to flinch.

Hurt is evident on Yusuke’s face, but so is understanding. “I... I’m so sorry, I...” the tears fall quietly, and he looks torn between wanting to go to Akira or stay where he is. As if his mere presence would open another wound on Akira’s body.

“It’s not your fault,” his voice is brushed under the winter air. “It’s okay...”

Yusuke shakes his head violently, fist clenching against his chest. “Don’t make up excuses for me. I... I hurt you. We are not supposed to lose control, and yet...”

“You’re still bleeding...” Akira winces as he rolls onto his side.

He hears the hitch in Yusuke’s breath. “And so are you,” Yusuke’s words are quiet, and Akira knows he probably means for it to be humorous, but the it rings harshly.

Still...

The smirk is too difficult to suppress, even _with_ the pain palpitating within his body. And the world tilts again, Yusuke crying his name right as his head smacks against the snow.

Black.

\--

Akira is unmoving against his chest, the snow and wind, bored with the sudden lull in events, continue with their dance. Yusuke didn’t care what happened to him. But he’d be damned if he was going to let Akira die like this, without having a fighting chance.

It hurts to walk, hurts to breathe...

He crumbles to the ground, tripping on a mound of snow. Akira falls out of his arms.

Like the dog he is, he crawls towards him, drags his weakened body until he can cradle Akira’s head, his shoulders, his upper body into his lap. The tears try to push free like flowers in spring, and he lets them.

He’s already pathetic enough as it is.

Why not let it show a little more?

“I’m so sorry...” his voice is strangled, half whispered. “I thought I was helping, but...”

 _No_ , something in his mind that sounds _eerily_ like Madarame counters nastily. _You were only thinking of yourself. You wanted to repay the favors, prove a love that didn’t_ need _proving. The only thing you succeeded in was bringing him to the Reaper’s door. Try to leave, and it will take your soul as well._

Coldness has bled into his skin, frigid against the back of Yusuke’s knuckles.

 _You break everything you touch_.

He bites his tongue, teeth pinching the inside corner of his mouth. Body wracking with a restrained sob.

  
_The hoshi no tama was a death sentence._

He knows. He knows, and it hurt.

Something touches his shoulder.

  
_The world would be better without you, Yusuke._

He doesn’t see who it is, doesn’t know what curious spirit may be reaching out to him, sensing _emotions_ from a kitsune.

“ _Stay back_!!” his voice bursts out in a sob, glaring through the tears that breach his line of sight. Akechi seizes his wrist as Yusuke sways his arm in a wide arc. The blood on his face is dry, but wetness glistens on his lips. Had he not been supporting Akira, Yusuke would’ve struck him. So what if he hit a demigod’s son? He tried to possess one; his soul was damned before he even started. “You...”

The silence is somehow worse than Akechi’s faux pleasantries.

He rips his hand free, bares his teeth and holds Akira closer. “Touch me again and I will tear out what remains of your heart.”

Akechi sees him cry. Yusuke is too far gone to care. The tears roll quietly down his face, the quiet of their surroundings punctured by Yusuke’s occasional sniff. “Let me see him,” Akechi’s voice is raw from coughing, from hacking up every last drop of a God’s blood.

“Are you mad?!”

His patience is drawn thin as well. “Then let his death be on your hands.”

“He’s not going to die,” the lie is acid on his tongue. No. It’s not a lie. It’s not a lie until his heart stopped beating. He would cling to that hope even if someone dared to beat it out of him. “Unless there is truth to your words, get out of my sight.” Yusuke sinks his claws into Akechi’s wrist when he reaches forward, fingers extended to Akira’s forehead. He relishes the discomfort that contorts Akechi’s face. His bone is no longer strengthened by some divine being. He could snap it like the twig it was.

“Unhand me, Kitagawa,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “I am trying to help him and you.”

“This does not excuse your actions from earlier.” Yusuke says, easing his grip.

“I know,” Akechi snaps, peeling off the dark glove spotted with red, so clean compared to the blood that crusts his face. “He may not forgive me for this, but I intend on unbinding his contract with Arsene. But after all that happened, that will be the least of his concerns.”

He frowns. “And what will that do?”

“He’s bound to you too,” Akechi continues, and his own being manifests to life behind him. “A contract with someone connected to a God is stronger than one connected to a demon.”

“Arsene was different,” Yusuke says absentmindedly as he too appears, black head bowed as if sleeping. And with his contractor knocked out, perhaps he was. “He sought out his human.”

Akechi’s demon raises its hand to Arsene, light dancing along its fingertips. The black chains encircling his body alight with blue fire, blazing harshly. Slowly, ever so slowly, they disappear in a crescendo of white light. He does not open his eyes, nor does Akira.

“What is the point of this?”

“You’ll figure it out,” Akechi mutters, watching quietly as Arsene too begins to fade away. “He’ll be free as well, but maybe he’ll try to latch onto Akira next time he sees him. They had an odd contract,” he looks up at his demon. “Robin Hood, show them the way.”

It draws its bow, arrow lighting before it touches the spot adjacent to them. A pocket space burning to life the instant the wooden shaft of the arrow is split down the center. Yellow and white light bleed from the orifice before the blurred image of Yongen comes to life.

His mind says ‘Yongen’, but his heart wants to say ‘home’.

But he hasn’t earned that right yet.

Yomi roars to life, snow whipping into a blizzard, a brief calm before the storm until the snow stings his eyes. The ground shakes, an unspoken threat to crack open at the perfect opportunity. Akechi sputters. Yusuke wipes harshly at his blood on Akira’s chest. “I don’t think Shido liked that,” he says absentmindedly.

Akechi’s grin is wry. “Good,” and he rises to his feet, clenching a hand over his heart. “Anything to piss him off one last time.”

“You can’t fight him on your own,” Yusuke counters, struggling to stand. The burns from the ritual were well branded into his bones... or that’s how it felt. “You’ll be killed.”

“Maybe I will,” he shrugs. “But in the eyes of real gods, I was the one who saved the human he was ready to kill.”

Yusuke’s brows furrow in a glare. “You beat him.”

The pocket space wavers. “Hurry up.”

He does, takes himself and Akira closer to their exit. “A reminder, Akechi Goro,” at the look he receives, Yusuke continues. “Should you survive this, you are to stay away from any of them. Though you severed the tie between him and his demon, that does not mean you weren’t partially responsible for dragging him into such chaos.”

“And I suppose you are the other half of that blame.””

His teeth grit together, fingers curling into the back of Akira’s shirt. “The next time you formulate a plan to rid the world of your demon father, keep him out of it.”

“We could argue about this for days, Kitagawa. But we both know the role you played in this as well,” Akechi does not smile, does not smirk. He is unreadable. “He’s a smart person. He’ll figure it out if you don’t tell him.”

The wormhole begins to shrivel.

Yusuke nods, more to himself than to Akechi, to Akira sleeping in his arms. His face has loosened, no longer tight with the agony of—

—of Yusuke’s fangs tearing into his flesh.

The last thing he sees of Akechi is his vapid expression, blood caked to his face, splattered like a terrible painting on the backdrop of his brown coat.

And he steps into the light.


	18. Chapter 16

When he comes to, it as if he’s been buried in a dream that he could not escape. Every part of him is sore, and he can barely move. Tears bead his eyes, cling to his eyelashes in response to the sunlight streaming through the window. The smell of coffee streams from downstairs, wafts straight to his very bed, and he’s suddenly aware of how thirsty (and _hungry_ ) he is.

Akira shifts in his bed, begins to squirm his way into a sitting position.

“ _Meow!_ ” Morgana jumps onto his lap, springing down from the windowsill. His claws retract on instinct.

“Easy,” he hisses, stroking his fur as Morgana butts his head against him. “What happened?” he mutters, surveying his room. The easel is pulled out, a canvas covered with a dark colored cloth resting on its tray. But his room is unchanged from what he remembers. “Yusuke was here...”

“Akira?” he isn’t given the chance to respond before the sound of footsteps thunder up the stairs. First Ann, then Ryuji, and finally Sojiro.

He blinks. “Hey—”

She is the first to cross the room, hugging him tightly before Ryuji follows suit. When she pulls back, her eyes are wet, eyebrows knit together angrily. “You... You had us all scared! I... We thought you...”

“We were there until morning,” Ryuji fills in, fist trembling from where it presses against the wall to support himself. “’Till, what, 3?”

“Hey, give him a little space,” Sojiro says, approaching the bedside. “You were in that world again,” it’s not a question. “For Christ’s sake, kid, you gave us a heart attack...”

Guilt wells within him. “I’m sorry.”

“You were out for _three days,_ Akira.”

...

Huh?

“Yeah, and Yusuke’s been hoverin’ over you, but no idea where he is now.”

“ _Meow_!”

“What’s he sayin’?”

“Three... days...” Akira says slowly, begins to push himself out of bed only to be met with Sojiro gently pushing him back. A wave of vertigo strikes him. “I’m fine,” he protests.

He doesn’t look convinced.

“We couldn’t take you to the clinic,” Ann explains, sitting at the foot of his bed. “Well, she came here, but... aside from the bites, there wasn’t anything wrong. She wanted us to tell her when you woke up,” a pause. “Yusuke told us what happened... or most of it.”

Sojiro frowns. “Did he really attack you?”

“No,” Akira shakes his head, voice firm. “It wasn’t his fault. That ritual did something to him, and he panicked. He wouldn’t have done that on purpose,” he slides the covers aside, suddenly too hot from the layers. “Where is he?” Unspoken: Why isn’t he here?

“Out by that damn shrine,” Sojiro responds with a sigh. Tired. “I’m thinking it needs to be removed. Though doubt it’d do much for him,” this time, he does nothing to stop Akira from climbing out of bed, watching as Ann steadies him by grabbing his arm. “If you wanna get him, fine, just... don’t stay out too long, alright? I’ll have something waiting for you both when you get back.”

Akira tries not to let the shock show. “Really?”

And he smirks. “Like you’d listen if I said no.”

“Got me there.”

“Wait,” Ryuji says suddenly. “Shouldn’t we go with you? Just in case something happens?”

“Nope,” Ann shoots down. “We’re staying right here.”

He gawks at her. “But... He just woke up!”

She laughs, guiding him downstairs. “You don’t get it, do you?”

Morgana leaps into his bag, a request to be taken along for the ride. Which... fine, Akira could use the company. He slings it over his shoulder when Sojiro speaks again, suddenly quite serious.

“Hey, uh...” he starts. “Look, I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just gonna be out with it,” _that sounded dangerous..._ “Your folks called the other day.”

Yep. There it was.

It’s instinct that causes him to draw his bag closer to himself, grasping the strap tightly. He swallows. “What did they need?”

“They’re your parents, not mine,” Sojiro mumbles. “They haven’t been satisfied with your grades, or something. And apparently there was something about returning home too because your record was clean.”

So he knew.

This whole time, he knew.

“It wasn’t any of my business, and it wasn’t yours either,” he continues. “But after speaking with Yusuke the other night, I suppose I’ve had a change of heart. Your parents undermined the severity of the charges against you, but when your friend told me about that politician... Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now. What I’m trying to say is your parents may not be calling either one of us for a while.”

They hadn’t called much before, his mind thinks bitterly. “What did you say?” Akira asks, feeling himself tense up even further. If that were possible...

“Just... adult things,” Sojiro brushes off. “Long story short, I gave them an earful. There. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I... see...”

He rests his hand on Akira’s shoulder. “Listen, if I ruined anything, just tell me. My intention wasn’t to make things worse between you and your folks.”

“No,” Akira says, and he ducks his head. “I... should be thanking you; they never listened to me.”

Sojiro blinks. Akira looks up.

“You’re weird,” Sojiro deadpans, but he smiles anyway. “Not sure what kind of kid gets happy when someone yells at their parents, but whatever. Get going, he’s waiting for you.”

 _Yeah_ , he thinks. _He is._

\--

And he is exactly where they say he is, back facing the street, gazing intently at the small altar.

Morgana squirms in his bag. He sets it on the ground, undoes the zipper.

“Yusuke.”

His shoulders tense before he turns, eyes wide with shock. Yusuke would have run up to him then, hug him, maybe kiss him if he were lucky. But he does none of those things. “Akira...”

If Yusuke won’t go to him, then Akira would make the first move. He tries not to feel too disheartened when Yusuke doesn’t return the hug, his body tensing beneath Akira’s. “We need to talk,” he says, pulling away.

“Of course,” Yusuke averts his gaze, but says nothing.

Silence drips between them. The disheartened look on Yusuke’s face does not belong there. Akira fears he’s going to make it worse before he broke into one of those smiles of his. He sighs heavily. “What you did was dangerous,” he starts. “Akechi was our only lead to Shido, but you let it blind you. And in the end, did we really change anything?”

“It’s been three days since I last visited Yomi.”

Irritation pricks him. “That’s not the point—”

“I can’t go back, Akira,” Yusuke cuts off. “There is something blocking anyone from entering,” his gaze lowers to Morgana, briefly. “Him as well.”

“...I don’t get it.”

“I think you do. Shido and Akechi were not regular half-breeds. Their power was significantly stronger than anything I’ve faced before – including Madarame. Akechi is the reason why we returned to the real world. The ritual drained me of my abilities, and for a while, the hoshi no tama was a simple piece of jewelry,” his hand comes to Akira’s neck, brushes the lace gently (Akira shudders beneath the contact, but Yusuke does not notice). “I can use them again, but the ritual cut me off.”

He reaches behind himself ready to undo the knot. “Do you want it back?” it was wrong to withhold Yusuke’s only source of power.

“No,” Yusuke shakes his head. “I fear whatever Akechi did after sending us home is acting as a barrier. Whatever conflict rose between them is strong enough to keep beings from coming in or out.”

His gut drops like a stone in water. “He stayed back to fight Shido?” Akechi flashes in his mind, unnatural black blood dripping from every orifice of his face, the wet coughs ringing loudly in his head. “After what he did to him?”

“It was foolish.”

“It was _suicide_ ,” Akira corrects. “He’s...” _probably dead._ “Why did he bother saving us?”

Yusuke’s shoulders lift in a shrug. “That is beyond my knowledge. I found myself pondering that as well before concluding it was all connected to his failed plan of taking down Shido,” his eyebrows furrow at the bare altar. “Akira, there’s something I need to tell you about Arsene...”

His curiosity snags at the mention of his demon. The look in Yusuke’s eyes forewarn him of news that he knows he might not want to hear.

“Before Akechi helped us leave, he severed the contract between you and Arsene. In simpler words, he freed him and you,” he pauses, as if gauging Akira’s reaction. “I don’t fully understand myself either, but I fear if the connection had not been broken, Shido could prevent you from leaving. A God can smite demons, and I imagine it is the same for demigods. Meaning you too could have been trapped.”

Yusuke’s words sink in slowly, and Akira... He says nothing.

There’s a sudden emptiness that opens within his heart.

Maybe it was always there, or maybe it had been carved by Arsene.

But Arsene had saved him, fought under his commands even if Akira never fully understood _what_ he was. There were parts where he didn’t rush to Akira’s aid, but ultimately, he was a force he could rely on.

He wondered, if visiting Yomi a second time would allow him to see Arsene once more. If he would hear his voice.

Though Yusuke said the connection had been cut between their worlds. For now.

“Was he okay?” Akira finally asks.

And Yusuke nods, slowly. “It was painless.”

 _Good_. Akira wants to say. But he doesn’t. The relief is there, but the emptiness does not fill.

“Part of me wishes to believe Akechi severed that tie because he cared for you, that he felt some form of guilt.”

Morgana brushes between their legs, mumbling a string of meows.

“That is a likelier possibility,” Yusuke sighs. “Morgana thinks he may have been a victim of Shido as well. And after what Shido did to him at the shrine, he may be right.”

“Would we have been able to save him?” Akira ponders mainly to himself.

“I don’t know,” Yusuke says.

In another universe, maybe he and Yusuke fought alongside Akechi to take down Shido. Or maybe Akechi always met an unfortunate demise, falling short of his mission to reap justice on his father. For all the anger he felt during their fight, the pain that lit his body on fire from the stab wound to that spirit’s light arrows, he can’t help the bubble of pity in his stomach.

Madarame had been a pitiful man.

But Akechi had been tragic.

“Come on,” he pulls Yusuke’s wrist. “The others are waiting for us at Leblanc.”

Yusuke tugs free, brings it to his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Akira asks, confused.

He cringes. “For going behind your back, for deciding to change Shido’s heart even though you were against it from the start. And for...” Yusuke swallows, suddenly unsure if he should continue. “...attacking you.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” Akira says firmly.

“I thought I could help,” Yusuke continues. “I went in with the foolish mindset that he’d confess his crimes publicly if I possessed him. But I underestimated his power, didn’t think of how Akechi could have fit into the equation,” he grits his teeth, whips his head away from Akira’s gaze. “You were hurt. The one person who became more important to me than anyone else... My part in it cannot be forgiven so easily.”

Morgana is just as quiet as Akira, watching with dropping ears.

And frankly, Akira’s had enough of it.

He grips Yusuke’s hands. “Look at me,” he demands. Yusuke doesn’t. “ _Look_ at me.” The anger in his voice dissipates slightly at the unshed tears in his eyes. Blame was always put on the wrong person; Yusuke didn’t need to do that to himself.

Madarame blamed him for more than one life time.

“I’m not going to forgive you because there’s nothing to forgive,” he says firmly. “You never, not once, hurt me. And as long as we’re a part of each other’s lives, that’s not going to change. I can’t imagine what would have happened to me or Ryuji or Ann had you not entered it. I’m grateful for you more than I can put into words.”

Yusuke says nothing, mouth parted just slightly in shock. He glimpses one tear, then a second, then Yusuke’s looking away, body shaken from the sobs that threaten to burst free.

“The only thing I ask, is that you allow me to protect you too,” Akira’s voice softens, hands sliding up to his face, holding him gently. “Hey,” Yusuke looks at him, making a noise in the back of his throat. “No more secrets, alright?”

“No more secrets...” Yusuke agrees quietly, voice catching on the stubborn sob that lingered in his throat.

And Akira kisses him, hard. Yusuke fumbles beneath him before he brings his own hands to card through Akira’s hair. His face is wet from Yusuke’s tears, the taste of salt clinging to his tongue, and he wraps his arms around Yusuke’s neck, brings him closer. His jaw works to pry Yusuke’s mouth open further, and he makes a noise deep in his throat—

“ _Meow!! Mraw!_ ”

Akira breaks away with a gasp, leering down at Morgana the minute he feels his claws in his leg.

Yusuke presses his forehead in the space between Akira’s neck and shoulder, lips rumbling in a chuckle against the exposed skin. “He does make a compelling argument...”

He pulls back, narrowing his eyes. “What did he say?”

“ _Meow..._ ” and he retreats back into the bag, pawing at the zipper.

“That we should return to Leblanc,” Yusuke says, but something tells Akira that is not the answer. He intertwines Akira’s fingers with his, wipes at his eyes once more with his free hand, hoisting Morgana back over his shoulder. “Shall we be off?”

Akira hums in acknowledgement. “There’s... still some things I would like to talk about. Such as what did I miss when I was out for those three days?”

“I visited your school as you. You were asked out on a date by several people.”

He starts. “W-Why did you do that?”

“I’m only teasing, Akira.”

His face flushes. “I know that.”

Yusuke’s laugh is gentle, and Akira had no complaints about listening to it for the rest of his days. “There was something I did while you were asleep,” he says as Leblanc comes into view.

“Oh?”

He nods. “If you would allow it, until we can return back to Yomi, would you help me with my art?” he asks. “There’s an empty space on the wall in Leblanc that would be idea for a painting. I believe you would be an ideal subject, and it is my hope that I can emulate the same feelings my mother put into the painting from my childhood. When I’m with you, I feel things that I must immediately put to paper.”

“Sure, but...” Akira’s face feels suddenly warm. “Wouldn’t it be a little narcissistic to have a painting of me for customers to see _right_ as they walked in?”

“We can always work something else,” Yusuke says, and he swings their joined hands once. “Being with you made me realize many things about myself that I didn’t know existed. It is as if I am looking through my life with a new set of eyes.”

He can hear Morgana mumbling in his bag. He appreciates Yusuke’s words dearly, but he’s still not used to such... affection.

It was nice though.

“Maybe a fox motif,” he offers. “Using Arsene’s colors.”

Yusuke hums thoughtfully. “That is certainly a possibility.”

The door to Leblanc opens before they can touch the knob. Ryuji sees them first, standing up from the booth. Ann’s smile is equally warm in her own way. If only Sojiro would greet his customers the same way.

Well. The small smirk was good enough for now.

“What can I get you?”

\--

A week passes, and the names Kamoshida Suguru, Madarame Ichiryusai, and Shido Masayoshi became fragments of a past long forgotten. There are different rumors that spread from one person to another, that one went on another business trip, one found dead on his cell floor, and another was overseas to share his art elsewhere under a new alias.

Whatever it may be, he can’t find it in him to search for the truth. The day Yomi reopened its gates to him, would be the day he would learn everything.

If luck would have it, maybe he’d get to speak to Akechi Goro.

Ueno Park is quiet that weekend, or maybe it’s because he found a place where they could be with one another, surrounded by nature and away from the public eye. It is not the same as Yomi, but it puts his heart at ease. Or maybe it wasn’t the greenery by the person he shared it with.

“What are you thinking of?” Akira says, laying against Yusuke’s lap, head cradled in his hand. Yusuke’s tail twitches in Akira’s grasp.

“Everything,” Yusuke responds, face softening as he looks down at him. The way his black hair curls atop his forehead, gray eyes lined with curiosity, skin smooth and unmarred by the injuries from Yomi... He’s breathtaking, and Yusuke wants to frame this image of him in his mind forever. “But you are often in my thoughts.”

Akira chuckles softly, allowing his eyes to slide shut. “I find myself thinking about you too.”

The breeze that rushes by them is soothing, carrying a song unheard by human ears. It tells of a story about a human and his kitsune, of someone who strove to fight for change, of the joining of worlds and the lines they crossed fate put in their way.

Were they insane together? For pushing towards one another despite the hell fate wrung them through?

“To think we found one another all because you hit me with Sojiro’s car.”

Akira sighs, but it’s good natured. He pokes at Yusuke’s forehead lightly, coaxing out a one note laugh from Yusuke. “Don’t ruin the moment, Kitagawa.”

As he sits up, Yusuke closes his eyes at the softness of Akira’s lips.

\--

Tucked away in Leblanc’s attic lay an unfinished painting. Back turned to the viewer, the boy in the painting is bathed beneath the blank moon of an unspoken world. Mist cloaks him, the side of his face is frozen in one of curiosity as he gazes upon a fox that looks to the shrine guarded by Inari herself.

Captured in time, sealed in paint, it was the illustration of two who found one another despite the odds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-upload is complete and there may have been some typos along the way. Though I ask you not to nitpick this fanfic considering it was written/started 2 years ago, I can't stop you either. But know that I have zero intentions of editing this or even returning to it.


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